


Obliviate

by Ibbyliv



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Closets, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gryffindor!Enjolras, Harry Potter AU, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts AU, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Quidditch, Slytherin!Grantaire, animagus!Eponine, metamorphmagus!Jehan, post second war, werewolf!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras turned his head to face him as they fled so close to each other, and they heard Courfeyrac’s frantic voice through the microphone: “Hey kids, behave! No blatching in this game or Combeferre will have you both grounded!” The blond boy gritted his teeth. They were so close that Grantaire could feel the waves of air caused by the swishing of the ruby red robes. Their thighs merely touched, without it being enough to be considered as blatching, and Grantaire hissed before seeing the golden shine in front of their eyes, but Enjolras saw it too and they dived faster than the wind, the friction between the fabrics of their robes palpable, and before they knew it their hands were wrapped around the pulsating snitch and around each other, and they were a rolling mess of tangled limbs and robes on the muddy Quidditch field.<br/>*<br/>Enjolras is the Gryffindor revolutionary team captain who seems to have casted a constant Stunning spell over a certain Slytherin werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost in a dark immensity

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing. :P  
> That doesn't mean that I'm sure about the characterizations etc. Montparnasse and Eponine's relationship troubled me so much, I wanted to keep it as Brick accurate as possible.  
> Your feedback and suggestions is more than welcome!

Most of the time, Grantaire depended on a bottle of firewhiskey to prevent himself from collapsing in the lack of meaning he tended to find in most of the things, and waking up in the Slytherin dungeon did very little to help with his general mood the rest of the day. It was true that fake magical windows had been added to lighten the dark grey granite with the hints of green, but the idea behind the whole decision did quite repulse him (as well as many other). Magical windows were fake and pointless in a way which reminded him of several behaviours his Slytherin classmates seemed to often sport over the years.  
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel pride, or at least acceptance towards the house the sorting hat had put him in, no. After all he highly doubted whether he’d fit in any other Hogwarts house. It was just that he’d grown to not really care for earning or losing points for Slytherin, he viewed Quidditch as nothing but a form of personal relief and through the past six years, he’d never lost a chance to show Montparnasse (after the short friendship they’d shared during their first year) and his disgusting gang, his opinion of them, through some very effective curses.  
  
He was the drunkard who religiously ran behind the Gryffindors’ robes, he already knew what was said for him behind his back and he truly didn’t care. Even though most of the time he could be seen with two sixth years, Éponine, the Slytherin girl with the eternal dark circles under her eyes, and Jehan, the romantic metamorphmagus from Ravenclaw everyone tended to raise an eyebrow –and occasionally, a wand- at, it was a truth universally acknowledged that the three of them didn’t lose a single meeting of the A.B.Ai.S.S.E.s, (Activist Brotherhood Aiming for Sustenance of Social Equality) the student organization run generally by a bunch of seventh year Gryffindors, including the head boy and the head girl, with a leader whom Grantaire would rather not think about that morning.  
  
He took a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, which sarcastically said to him “Hangovers suit you well¸ you look as dashing as ever”, not really caring about the dark circles under his eyes and the unshaven state of his cheeks –which would do a perfect job to piss Professor Javert off-, he just threw on his uniform without bothering to knot the tie or to tuck his shirt into his pants, and with his robes swishing behind him, he rushed to the Great Hall in order to manage to grab something before classes would start.  
  
He found Éponine sitting on the wrong table as usual, surrounded by all the annoyed Ravenclaws for whom she didn’t give a damn, chatting vividly with Jehan who was today sporting his hair short and aquamarine. They immediately spotted him and waved their hands, smiling. (Actually Éponine waved her hand as Jehan’s one were rather preoccupied with a pair of knitting needles, and Jehan smiled, as you knew when a thunder was about to come when Éponine smiled better than the clouds on the sky of the Great Hall would warn you).  
  
They made space and he collapsed between them. “You look crap, man,” stated Éponine hoarsely, patting his back before taking a bite of her pumpkin pie.   
  
“Thank you, you know how to flatter a man,” he said bitterly, reaching for a piece chocolate cake. “Knitting for the house-elves again?” he asked Jehan, whose face lit up.  
  
“Yes but my needles seem too attached to me to work on their own, apparently,” he smiled behind a mess of yellow, purple and shimmering silver wool. It had become a trend after the Second Wizarding World, elves now had salaries and summer vacations, and could walk around dressed in the most clashing patterns and colors of mismatched woollen pieces. This year, the fashion seemed to ordain polka dot ponchos in colors of famous Quidditch teams –and nothing else. “Do you think Pinky will like this color coordination?”  
  
Éponine cleared her throat, trying to hide a smirk. “Absolutely. I mean, it’s something you would wear…”  
  
“…Which says a lot…”  
  
“…Both about house elves’ taste and your own.”  
  
Jehan grinned affectionately at what he received as a compliment and turned to Grantaire. “Tea?”  
  
“Some coffee would be great, thank you very much,” he groaned quietly, massaging his temple.  
  
“Full moon in a week, right?” Jehan asked sympathetically.   
  
“That,” said Éponine in a tender manner she only saved up for her best friends and Gavroche, “and a nasty hangover.”  
  
Jehan whistled. “Please tell me you both didn’t finish that bottle of firewhiskey in less than thirty minutes.”  
  
She shrugged her shoulders. “We did. With a little help from Gavroche whom we met in the corridors.”  
  
Jehan choked on his tea. Éponine’s brother most definitely wasn’t your average Gryffindor first year.  
  
“Do you have enough Wolfsbane in your stash?” Jehan asked, lowering his voice, “or do we need to tell Joly?”  
  
“If a seventh year in this castle was capable of brewing Grantaire his Wolfsbane, then that wouldn’t be Joly, but Grantaire himself,” snorted Éponine.  
  
It was true that Grantaire was excellent in Potions –Éponine jokingly blamed it on his familiarity with alcoholic spirits of both magical and muggle origin. However, no matter how much he used to boast for the girls that fell at his robes in the past (even though his friends hardly ever believed him), he always remained quiet about that talent and all his Gryffindor friends knew came from the Professor’s enthusiastic remarks and points he granted to Slytherin during double Potions every Wednesday. Apparently Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet and Cosette tended to congratulate him more on his achievements than the actual Slytherins did.   
  
He had been bitten the year before going to Hogwarts. It had cost him his first year, which he’d spent in St. Mungo’s hospital, and he’d started school a year later, being now a seventh year of eighteen going to nineteen. Transformations had been very harsh for him, and had granted him with several scars on his torso and cheeks, but now with the common use of the potion, he had at least learned not to dread it. Somewhere between his fourth and fifth year he had discovered that physical –and emotional- pain after the transformations could be numbed on a fair extent with the consumption of generous amounts of alcohol.   
  
However it wasn’t the up and coming full moon which was troubling him that morning, no. After all the support of all of his friends with it had always been immense and in the eyes of the Gryffindors, he had found the acceptance he had always lacked between the ranks of the Slytherins. Maybe it was because his classmates were similar to him. Most of the time he felt like a typical Slytherin and that probably caused his personality to clash with the others’. Maybe that was the reason the leader of the organization who was the Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain and the head boy’s best friend seemed to despise him.  
  
That was Grantaire’s main problem, most of the time. And, seeking for oblivion after the deadly glares and the annoyed snorts, after hearing his passionate voice and seeing the conviction in that beautiful face, he drank even more.   
  
He had noticed his head in the Gryffindor table: it was impossible for that halo of golden locks –the jokes with Éponine about him using Sleekeazy’s hair potion- were pretty frequent- and those burning eyes to ever go unnoticed. When he didn’t shout for merpeoples and werewolves’ rights, -making Grantaire feel like a cause, a part of a victimized mass instead of an individual-, his face was serene even though one could occasionally notice a slight frown or a nervous twitch of his eyebrows, when he tried to concentrate on some thoughts. His beauty was almost feminine, his lips red and his cheeks rosy, he seemed like he’d never look older than seventeen years old. He went everywhere with his two best friends whom Grantaire was rather fond of, but many times secretly found himself being caused jealousy by as well.   
  
Éponine noticed but she didn’t need to nudge him on the ribs for him to stop staring, as a handsome boy with a long, curvy neck and shiny black hair soon blocked their vision. “The Slytherin table does not seem good enough for you, does it now?” the voice is polished and sweet, and it makes Grantaire shudder in disgust. Ignoring him, he turns to Éponine. “What would your parents say if they knew?”   
  
“They won’t know, ‘Parnasse,” she said calmly, with a voice she only seemed to use when talking to him.   
  
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Of course,” he said casually. “You can depend on me.”  
  
Keeping surprisingly calm, especially for Éponine’s standards, she said “leave us alone please, go away.”  
  
“That’s not what you were saying yesterday at the dungeons, was it?”  
  
Éponine’s face flushed violently and Jehan shot him a death glare. “I can send my needles after him, you know.”   
  
“You don’t need to,” Éponine eyed him cautiously.  
  
A smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes appeared on Montparnasse’s face. “That’s right,” he said slowly. “You don’t need to, veela.”  
  
Grantaire gritted his teeth, his hand reaching for his wand.  
  
Montparnasse took a theatrical bow and shot a last smirk to Grantaire before turning and disappearing with a swish of his black robes.  
  
“I honestly can’t believe why you keep being nice to him,” Grantaire said grumpily to Éponine, sitting back on the bench and nursing his cup of coffee.  
  
“I have to. I know he occasionally sends owls to my father, they recently did some business together.” Grantaire rolled his eyes at the sound of the word business which most clearly involved goblins and gold. “Besides, he’s being nice too. To me and my family. I mean, not many people are, not to a decadent old pureblood family which followed the dark side during the Second Wizarding War to gain power.”  
  
“That wasn’t exactly being nice,” noted Jehan quietly before returning to his knitting. “Seemed more to me like blackmailing.”  
  
“They’re so awful with you, why do you even care for your shit family in first place?” groaned Grantaire.  
  
Éponine turned her face away, slowly shrugging her shoulders. “You don’t understand,” her voice suddenly grew distant. “I’m finishing school next year. I know I’ll fail most of my NEWTs, and then what? There’s nowhere I belong, really. I was stigmatized from the moment I was born in that family, in a post-war society. I mean… I could forgive our Gryffindor friends to be ashamed to even walk around Hogsmeade with a girl like me, yet they try to be so nice… But I can sense their hostility behind their manners. We’re outcasts, R.”  
  
“We aren’t,” grinned Jehan. “But even if you feel like you are, you both are always welcome in the Room of Requirement with me, and we can have a blast in our own, kickass imaginary world.”  
  
Jehan’s words reminded Grantaire of the times he’d joked with Éponine –and of those they didn’t really say those things jokingly- of running away together on a thestral, with nothing but a wireless tuned on Weird Sisters and a bunch of cats surrounding their miserable lives, and never go back. Now he didn’t bother to answer, he just let her fingers wrap around his own. He hadn’t received an owl from home in what seemed like months anyway. He wasn’t one to give family advice. After all, Pontmercy had just burst running into the Great Hall, his hair ruffled from sleep and his face confused as ever, only to find his precious Cosette and lean forward to be fed with a pancake. Grantaire knew that even if he tried to comfort her, she wouldn’t be listening at him anymore.  
  
At least they were together.  
_____________________________________________________________________  
Enjolras didn’t like herbology. At all. He’d never faced a problem towards earning a decent mark but the greenhouses hardly ever achieved to stir his interest.   
  
It was one of the rare occurrences when he’d feel so different from his two best friends. Combeferre found himself fascinated by all the different magical plants. Nature deeply intrigued him, as did philosophy, ancient runes, astronomy, muggle science and almost everything else they could find written in a book, really. He was the only one who could make Enjolras reconsider and possibly even change his opinions. He was an excellent head boy and a very bad Quidditch player –he’d never even tried to get into the team. He would eye his friends behind his spectacles and press his lips together disapprovingly when they’d earn a detention, yet he’d smile proudly when any of them made an achievement and always help them with their homework, bewitching his pen to imitate their own handwriting.  
  
As for Courfeyrac, he had recently expressed a considerable fondness for herbology too, but for a completely different reason.  
  
“He loves herbology!” he exclaimed enthusiastically while feeding his venomous tentacula with his dragon leather gloves. “He writes poetry and he is so intellectual, he is the only student the Grey Lady is so fond of after Luna Lovegood left the school and his hair today was aquamarine! Isn’t that delightful?”  
  
Combeferre tried to hide a smile while summoning his watering can with a wave of his wand. “Jehan is a great young man, with so much potential in several fields and many fascinating interests.”  
  
Enjolras shot Courfeyrac a sarcastic look. “That’s why it would be rather unfortunate if he lost his focus on our cause what with occupying his head with dates at Mme Puddifoot’s!”  
  
“Don’t worry, he won’t,” Courfeyrac’s voice turned mournful, “because guess what: there is no date!” he left a wrecked moan.  
  
“There, there, Courf,” Combeferre couldn’t pat his friend’s shoulder as his gloves were probably covered in venomous poison, but if he could they all knew he would. “We all know your excellent dating skills and irresistible charms will thrive again, don’t we?”  
  
“With no amortentia this time, I hope,” shuddered Enjolras.  
  
“Ah, amortentia,” sighed Courfeyrac dreamily. “Those were the days.”  
  
“No,” said Combeferre seriously, “they weren’t.”  
“Suze Scamander will always be traumatized after you tried to serenade Celestina Warbeck to her!”  
  
“That wasn’t funny,” said Combeferre grumpily, his cheeks flushing until their tone resembled of the bed sheets in the Gryffindor dormitories.   
  
“It was, a little,” chuckled Courfeyrac. “But I promise I’ll obey to the rules, papa ‘Ferre. No love potions involved. Just my irresistible charms, as you correctly stated.”  
  
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Can the universe stop turning around Courfeyrac’s love life for a minute so that we can discuss the newest Ministry legislation concerning the vampires and the size of their coffins? We can’t turn our backs to freedom of coffins so easily!”  
  
“Yes, but my heart aches!” moaned Courfeyrac. “Don’t listen to him, ‘Ferre, he’s downright cruel!”  
  
“I don’t see how I can help you…”  
  
“I need to owl him something… a sonnet, or whatever. I don’t know, you are the master of muggle poetry!”  
  
“Courfeyrac, I’m afraid you should find this on your own…”  
  
Courfeyrac did a small pleading dance around his friend and ended up bewitching his tentacula so that it’d flutter its eyelashes to Combeferre. “Come on, Feeerre!”  
  
“What will I get in return?”  
  
“Um… a new Holyhead Harpies cap?”  
  
Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Not tempted enough.”  
  
“What about my glorious body?” Courfeyrac winked, curving his waist underneath his wizard robes before leaning over their working bench seductively.  
  
“I’d rather go for the cap.”  
  
“Hey,” Enjolras’ sharp voice tried to bring them back to reality, “Vampire oppression, doesn’t wait around, you know!”  
Combeferre sighed, already looking tired behind his spectacles. He opened his mouth, probably to say something reassuring to Enjolras, when a shriek was heard from the bench opposite them.  
  
Before they even turned their heads to look, they knew it was Joly and that poor Bossuet was the root of evil again.   
  
A rather irritable plant of doubtable identity had wrapped its tentacles around poor Bossuet’s face and, in his effort to be helpful, Joly had started hyperventilating while trying to recall numerous treatments, symptoms and side effects from his huge, dusty, beloved healing books. Somewhere between their screams and the other students’ laughter, Combeferre waved his wand lazily and freed a breathless Bossuet, before Professor Longbottom even realized a thing.  
  
Darling Joly then pulled Bossuet into an affectionate hug, only to be sent in another fit as his friend’s face started getting covered in big, greenish pimples.  
  
From the other corner of the woodhouse, they could see Feuilly and Bahorel, playing duelling as always. No matter how mature Feuilly was, after growing up orphaned and alone, helping at the Leaky Cauldron ever since he was a little boy, he still needed to act like that boy sometimes, and Bahorel never lost a chance for a brawl, even when it was a mocking one. After one of their meetings, Bahorel had witnessed some Slytherins laughing at Jehan –with whom they were very good friends- and calling him names, because he loved flowers and muggle poetry, and because his hair had been rather unusual that morning. Jehan was perfectly capable of performing a pretty badass Bat-Bogey Hex, but before he could even take his wand out of his pocket, Bahorel had sent them all to the infirmary, with celery grown out of their nostrils and certain other hollows of their bodies.  
  
At the moment Feuilly’s teeth were growing uncontrollably out of his mouth and Bahorel was being chased by a Fanged Frisbee. Both of them were incredibly skilled wizards in order to be able to deal with any damage afterwards, but for now they had immense fun that way.  
  
“I hope they don’t kill each other off before the upcoming Quidditch match next week,” sighed Enjolras.  
  
“Oh of course, because after the match it’ll be totally acceptable to feed them both to a basilisk,” joked Courfeyrac’ only to receive a playful punch on his ribs.  
_____________________________________________________________________  
The other lesson Enjolras wasn’t very fond of, was Potions, and especially Double Potions which Gryffindor shared with Slytherin every Wednesday. In all his seven years in Hogwarts, he barely ever found interest in brewing a few dry leaves together with toad’s saliva and turn the scoop three times clockwise and four counter clockwise. What fascinated him was every lesson which dealt with living creatures, -humans or not-, their personalities, their way of living and the kinds of society they tended to form. In potions, he hardly found any of those things. He hated the uncertainty of the drafty, cold dungeons, and the fact that this very uncertainty made it difficult for him to concentrate on other thoughts which truly bothered him.  
  
Much to his luck, most of the time throughout the years, he’d managed to pair with Combeferre, Feuilly or Joly, all three of them were considerably better than him in Potions.  
  
What he least expected to happen that day, a month before he’d become an adult, was the absurdity of Professor Slughorn to decide for the pairs himself, now, in their seventh year.   
  
“It would do you good to work with someone else than Combeferre,” he said with a smile.  
  
He most definitely wasn’t ready for the pair of icy blue eyes which got fixed on him behind dark, wild curls. Eyes full of the same look of sarcasm every single time, preparing him for the bitter, pessimistic remarks those chapped lips would always leave and drive him out of his mind during every meeting.  
  
The cynical Slytherin always sat in the corners of the classroom every time they met, with a mocking expression on his face, nursing a bottle of butterbeer or, occasionally, firewhiskey. He usually remained quiet, Enjolras often found himself wondering whether the man was paying attention to a single word he was saying, and then got angry to himself for even caring.   
  
When Grantaire chose to speak though, his words were harsh and sour, driven solely by cynicism. Enjolras knew he was a werewolf, and every time he didn’t cease to show how much he cared for the half-breed minorities’ rights, but for some inexplicable reason, that tended to make Grantaire even more mocking and sarcastic.  
  
The man terribly confused Enjolras.  
  
They took their seats around the fire their cauldron was on and Grantaire leaned forward, cutting some roots with delicate, long fingers, without a single word.  
  
“Aren’t you going to share your steps with me?” asked Enjolras rather impatiently.  
  
Grantaire slowly raised his blue eyes and smirked. The deep, pink scars across his face made Enjolras’ heart clench uncomfortably in his chest. “Of course, o fearless leader,” he said slowly, “you certainly seem terribly interested in cutting dittany roots!”  
  
“As a matter of fact I am not, but despite your Potions genius I would like to pay attention at my education.” Enjolras already looked annoyed.  
  
Grantaire whistled. “We’re witnessing an historical event, ladies and gentlemen! The mighty Apollo finally declared to not be interested and wholly devoted in something!”  
  
Enjolras felt his cheeks burning. “How did you call me?”  
  
“Apollo was the Greek God of Sun,” muttered Grantaire. “Shining and sparkling like your captivating ideas and beliefs…”  
  
“I know who Apollo is,” interrupted Enjolras with a hiss, “and I demand that you’ll never use that nickname again.” Responding to Grantaire’s previous remark, he continued, adopting a quite sarcastic tone himself, “better than finding interest in nothing, than refusing to believe and have faith in any value or idea whatsoever, isn’t it?”  
  
“I beg to differ,” smirked Grantaire, absent-mindedly throwing ingredients in the brewing liquid which was changing colors according to Libatius Borage’s Advanced Potion Making. “Not believing gives me the freedom of choosing to live the way I want instead of sacrificing my life for values which would never worship me in the way I did. I don’t wish to be a hero.” He lowered his hoarse voice dangerously, “There is selfishness in it, don’t you think?”  
  
“That’s not freedom of any kind,” snorted Enjolras. “You are enchained in your own efforts to not show faith in anything, not even to yourself.”  
  
Grantaire chuckled bitterly. “Why would I show faith to myself? On the contrary, you are the one who’s in chains: chains which obligate you to go against a society in recovery which will soon be corrupted again from the beginning. Wizarding history is repeating itself, Apollo. You of all people should know that better than Professor Beans does. You’ll always fight to save the societies which your beloved people will keep corrupting.”  
  
Enjolras ignored the nickname he despised and instead studied the man’s worn face, trying to figure him out. He found it impossible for someone to be so pessimistic towards human nature and wizarding societies, which were in no way similar to the muggle ones. “How can you even say such things?”  
  
Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, pressing his silver blade on a willow leaf. “Easily,” he muttered coldly. “Take a werewolf bite, a history book and modern day society,” he pointed at the cauldron, “brew them together, and here you have it!”  
  
“Why… why do you still keep showing up to our meetings then?” the blond man asked angrily. “You always drink and sit back in the corner and mock every single thing we believe in… Why don’t you just stay at the Slytherin common room with the rest of those… of those similar to you?”  
  
Grantaire grinned teasingly, rocking his chair lazily back and forth. “Because of you, your blind conviction, your captivating naivety, the passion in your voice and the fire in your glance,” he lowered his voice. “You make every minute of my dark immensity of numbness worthy, Apollo.”  
  
“Be serious,” muttered Enjolras furiously, through gritted teeth, feeling his pulse growing faster, throbbing in his head. The man was mocking him shamelessly; he could feel a mixture of shame, anger and pity boiling inside him. He was absolutely impossible.  
  
Grantaire shot him a teasing look, mixed with something unreadable, could it be… tenderness? There was silence for a few seconds, as he leaned over the cauldron. “I’m wild,” he whispered eventually.   
  
Their faces had ended up being close to each other, and Enjolras felt the scent of firewhiskey and that warm wave of breath on his skin. He raised his head to stare into those terribly confusing, icy blue eyes; for an instant he almost forgot how to breathe.  
  
And then Bossuet’s cauldron exploded.


	2. Those who fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jehan,” he muttered, the small distance helping him be heard even through the wind. “Do you think you can keep balancing on your broomstick? I want you to stay very still for me. I need to try something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry is _meant_ to be ridiculous so please excuse me for this! I know that Jehan would read beautiful poetry, but I am unable of writing any so...  
>  Thank you for reading!

That morning, Hogwarts woke up to a thin layer of fog. Thick grey clouds had filled the sky, surrounding the students and granting some of them with a feeling of suffocation. The main reason for the general gloominess was that such weather would decrease the visibility of the fliers and make the first Quidditch game of the year, between Gryffindor and Slytherin much more challenging and difficult.

 

Grantaire had woken up with a horrible headache, shivering and sweating in his bed. The fact that he had just recovered from a full moon a couple of days ago, would certainly not help his performance as a seeker.

 

Neither would the firewhiskey bottle he was cradling on his chest while throwing up near a green couch.

 

Éponine held his hair bag and supported the weight of his body while he emptied the contents of his stomach. A couple of other Slytherin seventh years stopped and stared at them in the common room.

 

“What are you looking at?” growled Éponine, startling them.

 

Montparnasse stepped forward. “We’re going to lose because of the _werewolf_ ,” he spat venomously, dragging his expressionless voice. “He should have been completely banned from the game since first year.” His friends nodded in consent.

 

Éponine threw herself up while Grantaire wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and raised her wand. “That’s enough, ‘Parnasse,” she hissed. “That’s more than enough, don’t you think? Why don’t you go and get ready? Wear your shiny _keeper_ uniform and show us what _you_ can do? Or maybe… what your Twigger 108 can do instead.”

 

Montparnasse dragged his own wand out of his pocket but Grantaire was faster, and before they could see it coming, he shouted _Impedimenta!_ and Montparnasse froze at his place.

 

“You’re in the same team, toadheads!” shouted the thirteen year old Azelma, walking between them in a furious manner. “Slytherin will never take the Cup if you knock each other fuckin’ _unconscious.”_

 

A snarky smirk appeared on Grantaire’s face while he cleaned his vomit with a wave of his wand. “Slytherin,” he muttered venomously, “now _that_ has a priority position on the list of things I don’t give a rat’s tail about.”

 

Before the others could throw him a curse, Éponine threw an arm around his shoulders and led him to the boys’ dormitories which were empty at such an hour, apart from Minette, Claquesous’ greasy salamander pet.

 

The girl forced Grantaire to sit down on his bed. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped. “Can’t we just give our best to this fuckin’ game and then tell them to _sod off_?”

 

Grantaire laughed bitterly, then raised his dark curly head. His yellowish complexion and the dark circles under his icy blue eyes made her insides clench uncomfortably. “What indeed is wrong?” he said, his voice not louder than a whisper. “Just a few fresh wounds on my torso and a visible one on my throat, just a torn, aching body recovering from a transformation into a murderous dark monster of the underworld, and a throbbing hungover head. Just the Gryffindor seeker, talented and capable enough to become a professional one day, if of course he wasn’t into all this activist shit. Do you know what, ‘Ponine? ‘Parnasse is right. They shouldn’t have allowed a werewolf to play in first place.”

 

Éponine’s expression was unreadable until she leaned forward and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him fiercely. “You’ve been in this team for five years. You didn’t _force_ the captain to choose you, he _did_ because you were the _best_ by far. They made you a seeker, they gave you the most difficult position, guess why? Because you are _capable,_ Merlin dammit! You’ve been a werewolf all along, yet you always played wonderfully. You’ve won not one, not two but several matches throughout all these years, you’ve been playing against _him_ forever. You can do it today like you always could.”

 

She waved her wand in the air, and a green and silver Quidditch uniform fled in her hands. She helped him wear it and then leaned forward to place a kiss on his raw, unshaven cheek. “I love you R, you little shit. You can do it. Not for them, but for _you._ ”

 

He threw his arms around her and ran his fingers through her knotted dark hair. “Love you too, ‘Ponine,” he muttered hoarsely. “We’re so fuckin’ adorable people won’t even need puking pastilles anymore,” he added sarcastically.

 

The girl laughed and punched him playfully on the ribs. “I have to go get my own uniform. I trust you in Jehan’s hands, hoping he will feed you well.” She walked to the door of the dormitories, then stopped and turned around, giving him the _I’m watching you_ sign with her fingers. “EAT!” she growled and he waved his hand dismissively, clutching again his bottle of firewhiskey immediately after she left.

 

She was right, of course. Jehan, a neutral Ravenclaw Quidditch lover who didn’t support any of the two teams, only cheered every time either a Gryffindor or a Slytherin friend of his scored (and maybe that time when Montparnasse had fallen off his broomstick) was waiting in the Great Hall, his hair today styled in confusing red-and-green streaked locks. Grantaire found him climbed on Bahorel’s shoulders, earning several disapproving glances from the Professors’ table. Bahorel looked fierce, to say the least, his huge form and ebony half shaven hair contrasting with the bright red of his uniform. His smile was genuine when he saw Grantaire in his green one. “Good luck for today, mate!” he said cheerfully, after helping Jehan to the floor.

 

Grantaire felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. “Thanks, you too.”

 

Bahorel turned around to go and find his fellow teammates and Jehan patted Grantaire’s shoulder affectionately. “Come, I’ve made you breakfast.”

 

“Thank you, Jehan, but I’m not really hungry,” muttered Grantaire. “Plus, not to disappoint you, but house elves have actually made that breakfast you’re about to feed me.”

 

“Yeah well, but I gathered food in a place and did the decoration! Come on, you need to eat!” The petit man’s grip on his robes was unexpectedly tight as he dragged him to the Ravenclaw table, a quite strategic movement, as his fellow Slytherins would definitely not prove themselves to be really fond of him today.

 

He obliged and ate every green piece of food Jehan had found on the table in order to boost his Slytherin pride up, even though the color mostly made him long for some veela absinthe which could only be found illegally in the Hog’s Head.

 

For a moment he thought he could do it, but then he saw the weather as they headed to the pitch with Éponine who was now in her patched uniform, dark clouds seemed to take the oxygen away, the chill was piercing through the fabric of his clothes and he wrapped his fingers around his old Nimbus 2011, being at least thankful it wasn’t raining. Yet.

 

But even worse than the weather, was the fact that he saw _them,_ the Gryffindor Quidditch team, dressed in red and gold, his friends, the people who accepted him every Friday in their meetings even though he made everyone freeze with his skeptical remarks and his sharp, sarcastic comments, and suddenly he felt ashamed, he wanted to let them win –to let _him_ win- because how could he even dare to play against a God, how had he done that all these years, how had Enjolras allowed him to win several times in the past, this was wrong, so wrong. It was a terrible mistake and for the first time, after all these years, Grantaire wanted to throw his Nimbus on the ground and run away.

 

He didn’t know whether it was an effect from the firewhiskey in his head, but his breathing had grown erratic at the sight of those wonderful golden ringlets, the red lips, parted in concentration as he planned their movements with Feuilly in hushed tones, the rosy cheeks and the burning eyes which suddenly turned to rest on him, causing his heart to skip a beat.

 

He was a werewolf, for Merlin’s sake. How would he compete with such a flawless, perfect man?

 

The crowds’ voices, cheers and applauds started piercing his aching head uncomfortably. All the students and Professors had arrived at the field and taken their seats, he could see the waves of red and green scarves as most of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were supporting either one or the other team –the sea of red was bigger by far, he noted bitterly, that was the actual nature of post-war _equality_ Enjolras talked about in his fervent speeches. How hypocritical, really.

 

He managed to spot a few small heads between the Gryffindor, a cheering Cosette with her red scarf wrapped tightly around her golden hair, a proud Combeferre, sitting quietly at his seat and little Gavroche, trying to scare Joly and Bossuet while pretending to be a dementor with his huge hood covering his face.

 

Enjolras took his eyes from him Grantaire he saw the captains of the two teams shaking hands, or rather, Claquescous trying to break Enjolras’ knuckles, as he realized with fury.

 

The whistle was heard, and before they could do anything else, they all found themselves kicking the ground and rising in the foggy air. Éponine gave him a reassuring wink and whispered “Give ‘em hell!” before disappearing on her Cleansweep 11, her bat wrapped tightly in one hand.

 

Somewhere distantly, between the wind which blew in their ears, they could hear Courfeyrac’s magically enhanced voice as he did the commentary of the match. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen and brace yourselves for the Gryffindor seeker’s magical virginal charm, welcome Enjolras, looking like a God with his glimmering curls and body of a statue on his fast, elegant Moontrimmer…”

 

“Courfeyrac...”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry Professor! The Slytherin seeker has proved himself to be quite capable as well throughout the past few years, look how concentrated he is, he is already searching for the snitch despite the obvious effects of a few drops of firewhiskey in his morning pumpkin juice… oh a Bludger is aimed for him but look how fast the Slytherin Beater is, Éponine is such a fine lass, I’ve asked her out a time or two but received an excellent bogey-bat hex instead…”

 

“ _Courfeyrac_!”

 

“No, I’m sorry I promise, objective commentary, I got this… Oh look, Pontmercy is going to score, his Comet 320 is such a gorgeous vintage model and still works perfectly well even though squirrels seem to like the taste of its wood but on second thoughts Pontmercy loves Squirrels...”

 

“Courfeyrac he _SCORED_ , for Merlin’s sake!”

 

Grantaire could hear the erratic applauds from the Gryffindors and his insides clenched tightly.

 

“Oh yes of course he SCORED! Ten points for Gryffindor! Brava, Marius, Cosette will be proud of you and forgive you for snuggling in my bed that time you had the nightmare with that acromantula, _suck that, Claquesous!”_

Marius was a strange individual indeed, but he was very talented in Quidditch and Ancient Runes, and he was an active member of les A.B.Ai.S.S.E.s even though his fierce opinions against every Slytherin were a bit anachronistic and biased, driven by fanatism; his discussions with Combeferre usually ended up with him being startled by the calm boy’s undoubtable arguments. Marius’ father had been a brave auror, killed during the second war, and he had grown up with his grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand, a proud pureblood from an ancient family who had not told him anything about George Pontmercy until he found out himself from discovering a dusty medal, locked in some drawer full of pixies. After that he had had a huge quarrel with his family and had appeared in Courfeyrac’s doorway to seek shelter for the summer.

 

“Hey… hey he did… that was blagging! Leave his broom alone! _Foul,_ you tosser!”

 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

 

“Hey give me that microphone back! I promise I’ll be good! Ha! Take that bludger on your pretty shiny head, do you like that, Monty? Well done, Bahorel show him how we Gryffs do it! Woah… woah Feuilly watch out, Azelma Thenardier is about to score…”

 

“ _Objective COMMENTARY_!”

 

“Yes of course, objective… HA! Feuilly just kicked some ass…”

 

Enjolras took his eyes away from Courfeyrac’s struggle to get his microphone away from Professor Javert, their fight causing parasites to the sound which echoed around the whole field and narrowing them, he focused in searching for the snitch. His eyesight was excellent and he was a very talented flier. His tall, slender, almost feminine build had made him one of the best seekers who ever passed from Hogwarts alongside Harry Potter, even though it was true that he had lost a few battles against Grantaire. Rumour had it that there had never been a more powerful, contrasting couple of seekers at the same time in the school, and this thing terribly frustrated him. He was an extremely devoted, proud Gryffindor and would always do his best for his team. He practiced very hard and believed in the game whole heartedly. It wasn’t that he did anything halfway, really. He was perfectly accomplished in so many things he didn’t even intend to major in, as he had already declined famous teams’ offers and dedicated himself to his studies and organization so that he could work on justice and equality of the unstable post war Wizarding Society. Grantaire sometimes thought whether he felt jealous of him: he didn’t. If he felt jealous of anyone at all, then that should be Enjolras’ (and his own) friends, who had earned an acceptance he would never even dream of.

 

The blond boy suddenly dived downwards, accelerating in his slim, expensive broomstick and Grantaire gave a moment to admire the fiery red tornado with the flash of golden contrasting with the grey mist of the sky. When he realized that Enjolras should probably have spotted the snitch and heard such an assumption coming from the microphone, he cursed under his breath and followed him as quickly as he could, feeling his insides emptying from the velocity of the air, and his palms growing clammy around his Nimbus despite the chill which was making the rest of his body shiver. His head was throbbing violently, but he needed to keep going, he needed to try, not for Slytherin, a small part of his brain admitted, but for him. He couldn’t afford making a fool of himself again before the eyes of the Gryffindor captain.

 

Enjolras turned his head to face him as they fled so close to each other, and they heard Courfeyrac’s frantic voice: “Hey kids, behave! No blatching in this game or Combeferre will have you both grounded!” The blond boy gritted his teeth. They were so close that Grantaire could feel the waves of air caused by the swishing of the ruby red robes. Their thighs merely touched, without it being enough to be considered as blatching, and Grantaire hissed before seeing the golden shine in front of their eyes, but Enjolras saw it too and they dived faster than the wind, the friction between the fabrics of their robes palpable, and before they knew it their hands were wrapped around the pulsating snitch and around each other, and they were a rolling mess of tangled limbs and robes on the muddy Quidditch field.

 

Just then, it started to rain.

 

The silence which fell in the pitch from the hundreds of students and Professors was terrific, for the few seconds before being replaced by frantic shouting, cursing and screaming.

 

Everything was a haze for Grantaire. He hadn’t yet realized what had happened, everything seemed to stay muffled and away from his brain: Courfeyrac’s enhanced voice, the shouting, the people who rushed in the pitch, Montparnasse and Bahorel being a rolling mess of punching and kicking near them… All he knew was that his body was pressed on Enjolras’ own, their hearts were beating frantically against each other, their ragged breaths had meddled together and their faces were close, so close that he could count every single tiny freckle on the beautiful boy’s nose, he could see every single raindrop that fell on fair, thick eyelashes, on parted, full, red lips, and the world seemed to have stopped for a while, it wasn’t turning anymore, he didn’t know how to breathe, they just stayed there, wondering what the hell had happened.

 

Until another hand came to part their own tangled ones, and declared that the snitch was wrapped inside Enjolras’ fingers, and his own fingers were just wrapped around the blond’s fist.

 

Gryffindor won.

 

He got up quickly and dusted his robes, everything around him being nothing but a buzz in his ears. He couldn’t deal with it right now. Not with the applauds of the Gryffindors and the curses of the Slytherins, not with Jehan’s sympathetic look and Eponine’s disappointed one, not with Clauqesous’ fists and Joly’s fretting over his scratched knee. But most of all, he couldn’t deal with Enjolras’ grip on his arm, with his bold voice which demanded that he’d wait. He pulled away and ran to the tower, not looking around.

 

Grantaire needed to drink.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

“Hey...”

 

Eponine turned around, her teeth gritted and her fists clenched around her old Cleansweep. Her tangled, black hair was producing dripping thick tails that clang on her scalp and her green robes were soaked wet, sticking on her body. Rain always seemed to come to her aid, and now she was glad that her tears of anger could meddle with the drops running on her face. She couldn’t let anyone know, she couldn’t explain that she didn’t care for the results of the game, that she was crying for the passionate kiss Cosette gave to a bedazzled Pontmercy and for the fact that Grantaire couldn’t earn the happiness of winning for once even though he was so close this time and he had technically caught the snitch together with the Gryffindor seeker.

 

“What?” she snapped at the boy who seemed to have run after her in the muddy, raining Hogwarts fields. It was Combeferre, one of the leaders of the A.B.Ai.S.S.E.s. He had performed an excellent _Impervius_ spell on his spectacles, but his black robes and straight, brown hair were soaked wet. His expression was kind but she wasn’t in the mood for any mockery coming from Gryffindor dorks right now.

 

“I wanted to congratulate you. On the game, I mean.”

“We lost, in case you haven’t noticed,” she spat, “are you laughing at us? Because if you are, I swear I can hex your ass off…”

 

He chuckled softly and she couldn’t help but realize how warm his chocolate brown eyes were. It was stupid, annoying, confusing, but she seemed to drown deeply in them, slowly and torturously. “I’m perfectly aware of the fact. I have seen what you’re capable off during our meetings. But I’m not laughing at you.” He offered her his hand but she didn’t take it. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get somewhere where we won’t die from pneumonia.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you muggle born?”

 

“Half-blood,” he smiled apologetically, “I know, we _won’t_ die from pneumonia. But I personally am not particularly fond of Pepperup. I mean it though. It was only a matter of luck that Enjolras’ fingers touched the snitch before Grantaire’s did and you too played excellently, I saw you. Quite aggressively, if I may say so, but that’s what Beaters are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

 

“Well. Yeah. Thanks,” it was strange, the man was strange, the rain was fuckin’ strange, and it was so abnormal that she lost her words, she _never_ did lose her words. “Um, I have to go find Grantaire.”

 

They were closing the way in each other in a ridiculously awkward manner and she couldn’t help but notice him blushing as he moved aside.

 

“Of course. And… Eponine?”

 

She stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

 

“Don’t feel bad. It’s only a game and Slytherin still has plenty of opportunities. Jehan isn’t in the Ravenclaw team, so when you play with Ravenclaw in the next match I might decide to support you,” a soft smile appeared on his face. “I always found that enmity between Gryffindor and Slytherin downright idiotic anyway!”

 

She laughed bitterly. “Then you probably haven’t met with Claquesous yet.”

 

He made a step forward, as the rain grew stronger. “Not all Slytherins are bullies, Eponine,” he said quietly. “And you most definitely are not like them.”

 

She didn’t know what to reply to that. She just found herself drowning into these warm, chocolate eyes before clearing her throat. He turned around to walk away, the smile still lighting his features, but her hoarse voice interrupted his steps. “Combeferre?”

 

He stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

 

“Congratulations. For Gryffindor.”

 

The smile did not leave his face. “Thank you, Eponine.”

 

_____________________________________________________________________

On the next morning a few stray sunrays –a rather unexpected occurrence for the season- peeked through the windows of the dormitories. Courfeyrac opened his eyes with a groan, and stretched his muscles in his bed. They had stayed up until late last night, celebrating Gryffindor’s victory in the Common Room, until Professor Valjean had showed up through the portrait in his black night robes and Cosette, his adopted daughter, had to hide behind an armchair.

 

It was a certain thing that he wasn’t a morning person. At least he was less of a morning person than Combeferre, who was already up, having already folded his pajamas in a neat pile in front of his bed and changed in his wizard robes, and Feuilly, who was probably already studying mugglology on his favorite spot, kneeled behind an armor on the sitxth floor, before heading to the Great Hall to have some breakfast.

 

However there were some mornings when enthusiasm did an excellent job in throwing Courfeyrac out of his bed, transforming him into a dangerously energetic creature. These mornings he received several pillows on his head from Bahorel, and sometimes a hex as well.

 

Enjolras and Marius were the least morning people Courfeyrac had ever seen. As he threw himself from bed and summoned his trousers and sweater with his wand, they didn’t stir at all from the sound. He considered attacking them with _Tarantallegra_ in order to simply see what would happen if someone wanted to dance in their sleep, but then Enjolras left an adorable sleepy groan while turning and burying his face in the pillow, that Courfeyrac felt like showing some mercy to his poor friend who didn’t seem to have celebrated his accomplishment as much as he should the previous night.

 

Getting dressed, he decided to have a walk to the library before starting the studying he was supposed to finish for his NEWTs –the library was supposed to give him inspiration to study, right?

 

He exchanged charming salutations with half of the portraits in the corridors and stairs as he headed to the third floor, after all he was the one who was acquainted with most of them –and had several ladies in pointed witch hats and huge tulle dresses drool over him- and finally entered the library of Hogwarts. It was like that one time he had tasted Felix Felicis. His feet seemed to know where to lead them that morning.

 

The scent of old books, parchment and ink filled his senses and he smiled serenely, shutting his eyes for a while. He wasn’t one to be found with his nose stuck in a book most of the time, but the familiarity of the atmosphere reminded him both of Combeferre and Jehan and it made him feel at home.

 

Hogwarts was his home after all, he had spent hours and hours in this library throughout these seven years, trying to distract his best friends, getting distracted himself and staring outside the window, under Combeferre’s vigilant supervision. He still couldn’t believe sometimes that this would be his last year at Hogwarts. He would miss so many things.

 

He would miss the sixth year metamorphmagus from Ravenclaw who always had the most creative ideas during the A.B.B.Ai.S.S.E.s meetings.

 

His heart leaped when he noticed the poet sitting in the corner of the library, not on a chair but on the ledge of the window, savoring the rare treasure of the few sunrays, like a hungry flower. His hair today was ginger and shoulder length, a purple flower braided above his left ear. His blue tie was loose around his neck and a pair of big dragon shell glasses were balancing on the tip of his nose, as he read from a small, worn book.

 

He walked towards him, sporting a cheerful, casual smile, as if his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest excitedly like a pygmy puff on sugar overdose. Courfeyrac was notorious for his numerous love affairs with students, Hogsmeade sellers and Muggles during the summer, but he never seemed eager to begin a proper relationship. He was the most experienced among his friends and now he was trying to deny even to himself that he spent nights dreaming of a certain Ravenclaw, in an unfamiliar way which terribly confused him. The occasional jumping pixies in his stomach and the clamminess of his palms whenever the petit boy was around, certainly did not make him feel comfortable.

 

But Courfeyrac was never opposed to trying something for the first time.

 

“Hey,” he hissed, trying not to attract Madame Pince’s attention.

 

Jehan jumped up, startled, a faint blush already appearing on his freckled cheeks.

 

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Courfeyrac chuckled quietly, raising his shoulders apologetically.

 

“No, it’s ok,” grinned Jehan, patting the edge of the window near him. “Care to join me?”

 

Courfeyrac nodded. “If I’m not distracting you from something important… I like your hair today,” his fingers played absent-mindedly with a wavy ginger lock and the resemblance of the color on Jehan’s cheeks and his hair grew even bigger. “Thank you. It’s… it’s my natural.”

 

Courfeyrac’s breath hitched on his throat. “It suits you perfectly! You should have it like that more often!” Noticing the boy’s blush and translating it as discomfort, he hurried to change the subject. One could count on Courfeyrac to be helped feeling at ease. “What is it today?” he asked, pointing at the small book now resting on Jehan’s knees. “Studying? Herbology, huh? Or maybe the Pre-War house-elf rights manifest?”

 

Jehan cleared his throat and stared at the book. “Poetry, actually.”

 

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow interestedly. “Poetry?”

 

“Yep. Simone Spiderweb. _Memoirs of amortentia and other Sonnets_.”

 

“Would you care reading me some?”

 

Jehan raised his eyes shyly. “Are you serious? You want to hear me reciting poetry?”

 

“Of course I do,” replied Courfeyrac incredulously.

 

Jehan cleared his throat again and waved his wand so that the pages of the book turned quickly, stopping somewhere after the middle. “Here we are, one of my favorites: _Drowning in the immensity of a winter lullaby / In a cauldron where hopes perish and nightmares are woefully repeated / A pensieve which contains your hidden fears and desires disguised in drops of firewhiskey / Each of them runs on the smooth skin of your shoulders / And I feel jealous of that privilege, for I’ll never be more than a naïve sip of pumpkin juice / Perishing in the Forbidden Forest of your lips.”_

 

It was Courfeyrac’s turn to clear his throat. He couldn’t say that the poem had said anything significant to him, but the way the words took life on the youthful lips of the metamorphmagus, the calm, sweet sound of his voice, warming like a nice glass of Berry Ocky Rot on a snowy day. “It was lovely, Jehan.” Words escaped his mouth before he could control himself. “I would like to read some poetry myself. I literally know nothing about it, would you help me if you have some spare time?”

 

Jehan’s face lit up with a smile. “Of course! Follow me!”

 

He jumped on the floor, slender and lithe, and moved between high bookcases, shelves and racks, until he arrived to what seemed to be the Poetry Section. Courfeyrac followed him and by the time he reached him, panting, Jehan had already dropped on his knees, searching something on the lower shelves. He turned his head to face Courfeyrac. “Come,” he said. “I’m searching for something which would be a good start for you, but you can browse in the higher racks as well, at the romantics, and tell me if you find anything that stirs your interest!”

 

Courfeyrac was quick to oblige, but apparently his moves were not as steady as always. A –thankfully lightweight- book fell from his hands and landed on the floor, barely missing Jehan’s head, almost destroying the purple flower which apparently survived.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed in a rather shocked voice, forgetting about Madame Pince and kneeling on the wooden floor, near the boy. “I hope I didn’t hurt you!”

 

Jehan chuckled softly. “You didn’t. Only my flower was a bit crinkled.”

 

Courfeyrac’s hand reached to touch the flower with his fingertips. “Don’t worry, you’d still be beautiful without your flower!” He whispered, and before Jehan could even reply to this unexpected compliment, the flower growled to Courfeyrac, baring two series of tiny fangs. The dark haired boy quickly pulled back, breathing heavily, before bursting into laughter. “Well, you’re a _very interesting_ man, Jean Prouvaire! Excuse my language, but that was rather hot!”

 

Madame Pince’s shrieks could be heard behind the racks, so they grabbed a heavy book of poetry that read _Bonnie Pus – The Elderflower Wine Elegy_ and burst out of the library, running and laughing hysterically until they had almost reached the Great Hall. “Do you think we should have breakfast?” asked Courfeyrac.

 

“Actually I’m starving,” nodded Jehan, looking apologetic. “I didn’t have much to eat last night. Spent most of it looking after Grantaire.”

 

Courfeyrac’s insides clenched uncomfortably, feeling guilty for his teasing commentary of the game. “Wasn’t he well?”

 

Jehan sighed, leaning against the huge door of the Great Hall, from which came loud, incoherent noise from all the students having their breakfast. “Not really. He often puts himself down when he’s worth of so many things in reality… I mean, I can’t even stand on my broomstick. If only I could fly as well as he can, even when drunk…”

 

“What do you mean you can’t stand on your broomstick?”

 

Jehan transferred his weight on his left foot. “I don’t really… I don’t fly,” he admitted.

 

“How can you _not fly?_ You’re not afraid of heights, are you? It would be really strange for such a romantic to be afraid of heights!”

 

“No, I’m not,” chuckled Jehan. “I’m just extremely clumsy.”

 

“Flying is particularly essential for a wizard.” Courfeyrac bit his lower lip for a few seconds, then his face brightened. “Hey, the weather is gorgeous today, why don’t you come to practice flying with me.”

 

That suggestion clearly took Jehan by surprise. “I don’t think…”

 

Courfeyrac grabbed the smaller boy’s shoulders enthusiastically. “Think of it! It’s an excellent idea!” Jehan opened his mouth either to reply or to protest but the seventh year interrupted him. “We’ll go in there and get some breakfast, each of us to the table of our house so that Bahorel and Feuilly and the rest of posh Ravenclaw pricks won’t notice. See you at the Quidditch pitch in an hour! I’ll bring my Firebolt for you to practice. There are a few decent broomsticks for me in the changing rooms!”

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

The last thing that Jehan would be able to believe if someone told him, would be that the man he hasn’t stop dreaming of and writing poetry about, curled up on his favorite armchair in the Ravenclaw common room, would offer to teach him how to fly.

 

He wasn’t experienced in terms of relationships, but he could _sense_ what such glances of those quirky green eyes meant, and even though he had never felt more anxious, he had allowed himself to be blissfully filled with a hint of hope. He knew that it was all about the most popular Gryffindor boy who flirted with everything with a pulse, but he couldn’t think sanely, not anymore. His heart would race everytime he’d hear his infectious laughter, his imaginative mind would be filled of numerous beautiful images. He desperately longed to wrap his fingers around Courfeyrac’s own, to press his lips chastely against his defined cheekbone…

 

Jehan knew when he was in love. He knew it very well indeed.

 

Courfeyrac was up in the air when he walked to the Quidditch pitch, his cold hands already clammy. The beautiful boy finished a demonstrative pirouette before landing, raising dust with his feet, and handing his Firebolt to him with a smile. “Here, have mine. It’s a bit fast but I’m sure it’ll suit you well.”

 

Jehan gave him a nervous smile before wrapping his fingers around the broom. Courfeyrac waved his wand and a Comet 290 fled in his hands. “Are you ready?” he asked cheerfully.

 

Jehan’s breath caught on his throat. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he muttered, “sixteen is a bit too late for flying lessons.”

 

Courfeyrac waved his hand in the air dismissively. “It’s never too late flower, trust me.” At the sound of his new nickname, Jehan forgot how to breathe. “Listen, don’t worry, I will fly behind you, ok? I’ll be there to catch you if you fall. Now, place that broom on the ground.”

 

Subconsciously Jehan traced his tongue over his dry, pink lips before obeying, carefully placing Courfeyrac’s Firebolt on the grass. Courfeyrac did the same and in order to remind Jehan how it was done, stood right near the broomstick. “You know what to do now, right?” he muttered. “Say _Up!_ ”

 

“Up…” muttered Jehan with a trembling voice. The broomstick stirred but did not rise and the boy raised his embarrassed eyes to seek for help.

 

“No,” don’t worry,” Courfeyrac rushed to his side, looking reassuting. “The broom feels that you are hesitant. You need to be _decided_. There is nothing to fear! You’re going to make it excellently! Oh, you also need to have your hand like… _that…_ ” Biting his lip, Courfeyrac allowed his own hands to hold Jehan’s wrist and place it in the proper position. Jehan’s breath hitched on his throat, feeling the warm wave of the boy’s breath brushing on the back of his neck. “Up!” he said more decidedly this time, and now the broom fled to his hands, and Courfeyrac was fast enough to wrap his war, bigger hand around Jehan’s, enclosing his cold, slender fingers around the broom.

 

The stayed like that for a few seconds until the broomstick stayed calm betweem Jehan’s fingers. They didn’t need to speak, the silence between them was something completely new and rather welcome. The weather was beautiful in a way. A few stray sunrays were still peeking between the autumn clouds, but a refreshing wind was blowing, playing with Jehan’s hair.

 

“This might be a problem,” muttered Courfeyrac. “Would you mind if you morphed your hair shorter?” On second thoughts, it was too beautiful too be shortened. “Or… or I could do something to help, if you didn’t mind!”

 

Jehan shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, go ahead!”

 

With an impressive movement of his wand, Courfeyrac braided the shiny locks in a loose braid, and before he could help himself, his fingertips were stoking his achievement admiringly.

 

They soon realized that they were standing in the middle of the fields, holding a confused broomstick mid-air. “Are you… are you ready?” asked Courfeyrac hoarsely, trying to hide the awkwardness in his voice. Jehan simply nodded, riding the Firebolt carefully, as Courfeyrac climbed on the Comet. “Now, kick softly on the ground, on the count of three.” Jehan nodded sheepishly, frowning slightly and biting his lower lip in concentration. “One, two,…”

 

Jehan’s clumsy purple sneaker brushed on the grass, and before either of them could stop, a tornado of red hair and black robes was flying in front of Courfeyrac.

 

“Shit,” muttered the dark haired boy, taking off on his broomstick and following Jehan, who was now screaming with a mixture of enthusiasm and horror on his broom.

 

Jehan’s heart was pounding madly against his chest. He wasn’t afraid, but the sudden height he had gained, the wind swishing his robes and fighting against his figure, the freedom he gained on his broomstick, combined with the uncertainty and nervousness of that completely new feeling were intoxicating. He leaned his lithe body forward and flew underneath the clouds, passing near the windows of the seventh floor towers, looking at the point were green met the light blue of the lake, watching the gorgeous castle in all of its glory, the air cold and relieving against his cheeks, adrenaline filling every inch of his body as he laughed nervously.

 

Soon Courfeyrac was behind him and _Merlin_ he was beautiful, sparkling, green eyes, crooked smile and black shiny curls flirting shamelessly with the wind. He balanced easily, almost gracefully on his broomstick, giving him the most encouraging look. “You’re doing awesome!” he shouted, “I’m so bloody proud of you!”

 

And just then, clumsy Jehan seemed to loose his balance and slip slightly on the left. “Trollin’ crap!” he cried shakily. “I can’t do it, Courfeyrac, help me!” His heart had caught on his throat and he was panting desperately, cold droplets of sweat filling his forehead as he tried not to look down.

 

“You can do it, Jehan!” cried Courfeyrac. “Listen to me, focus your eyes somewhere… on the middle goalpost. Focus on the middle goalpost and breathe, try to straighten your body, all you need is to balance yourself in the air without flying at first, listen to me and take a breath!” Courfeyrac quickly made his way towards him, breathing to give him the rhythm. “Don’t worry about the wind, the broomstick just needs to feel you calm. Breathe with me, well done, that’s perfect!”

 

Jehan had managed to climb back safely and balance on his broomstick, inhaling and exhaling slowly, letting clean, cool air fill his lungs. His body felt surprisingly lightweight and his heart rate gradually returned to normal. He let a smile as he felt Courfeyrac flying near him. He turned and faced the older boy, an excited smile on his face. “I did it! I balanced!”

 

“I know you did it!” cheered Courfeyrac. He flew a little around the ginger poet who was bouncing softly up and down in the air while balancing on his broomstick. His brown eyes were so warm and lit with excitement, they were so close that he could count the adorable freckles on his nose and cheeks. “Jehan,” he muttered, the small distance helping him be heard even through the wind. “Do you think you can keep balancing? I want you to stay very still for me. I need to try something.”

 

Jehan’s pulse started hammering in his ears but he didn’t move, he didn’t reply, all he did was take a deep breath and drown in those beautiful green eyes instead of the glorious green forest underneath them.

 

There, in the air, they both held tightly on their broomsticks as Courfeyrac leaned forward, shutting his eyes. Jehan could now tell the difference between the cold air playing with his face and the warm breath of the other man brushing against his skin. It was a glorious feeling of freedom to be in the air, his eyes shut, as if he was magically floating. He took a deep breath and held it, fingers gripping tightly around the broomstick and he felt the other’s fingers clutching on his own robes, supporting him. Before he could take another breath, Courfeyrac’s lips were softly brushing against his own, tasting of sweet tea and pumpkin pie, and while they fled, Jehan thought he would explode with happiness.

 

As their lips touched each other between the clouds, their hearts managed to touch the sky.


	3. The point of no return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do it, R! Do it!” cried Enjolras, afraid that the man would collapse any minute. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he couldn’t think about it, his blood was pounding frantically against his meninges making any attempt of thinking impossible. “Do it!” 
> 
> “RIDIKULUS!” cried Grantaire, his face a mask of horror and hatred.
> 
> The boggart vanished in thin air with a loud pop, and before Enjolras could stand up and reach for him, the man was furiously running away in the corridor, his black robes swishing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this has taken ages, I'm so sorry for it, I promise I won't abandon any of my stories, I just need some time to cope with everything, as well as real life.  
> This is the stupidest and most angsty chapter of all 6, let me assure you, but I promise some Hogsmeade fluff in the next one, so yeah. Thank you for reading.  
> Constructive criticism, especially concerning characterizations and Harry Potter stuff is always welcome. 
> 
> Also this is UNCHECKED because I wanted to put it up, I have to go now because I have tickets for the Opera (Carmen, my favorite!) and I'm so sorry for the ridiculousness. I will check it when I come back in a few hours.  
> WARNING: violence, blood. Just a bit.

The night was dark and peaceful, without a single cloud on the sky, making the multitudes of stars easily visible. Occasionally the hooting of an owl would tear the silence, apart from the quiet chattering of the students. Enjolras had never found a point in Astronomy being a double class that they happened to share with Slytherin. It still was an optional class after the fifth year, but the remaining ten Gryffindors and Slytherins were still a crowd for the Astronomy tower.

 

His telescope happened to be placed next to Grantaire’s, and every time his glance fell on the other young man –despite his efforts to prevent it from such mishappenings- his insides tightened uncomfortably. His appearance had been worse than ever; he knew that Grantaire had issues with alcoholism and addiction and he looked like he lacked sleep even more than Enjolras himself did. His robes were scruffy and wrinkled and his hair dishevelled as a bird’s nest. As for his eyes, they were blank and dry behind the dark circles that surrounded them, contrasting horribly with his yellowish, sickly complexion.

 

Professor Javert was a cold man, the head of the Slytherin house who hardly ever forgave any Slytherin for their trespasses, treating everyone equally but extremely strictly. His stern glance reminded Enjolras somehow of a raven, his muttonchops and sleek ponytail that rested on the nape of his neck filling the revolutionary student with an inexplicable sentiment of disgust. He didn’t know whether he liked him or not; it was a fact that they disagreed about everything and that the Astronomy teacher had given him numerous detentions throughout those years to “tame his rebellious spirit” yet Enjolras could not truly hate him. He seemed like a misguided man and his words when he seemed to be intoxicated by his job which he adored, were indeed captivating. Even though their opinions heavily contrasted, Enjolras could not deny the whimsical spark in his grey eyes every time he spoke of the justice hidden in the starry paths of the glorious galaxies they could see in their telescopes, the subtle line between the darkness of the abyss and the light of every star that he excellently described.

 

When someone worked hard and seemed interested enough, turning in homework and not causing trouble, Javert usually treated him fairly. That was the main reason that the smooth Combeferre always managed to be in good terms with the Professor, despite his rebellious opinions. Right now Javert was walking between the telescopes, his night blue robes twirling around his black leather boots, shouting directions in his bold voice. Only Combeferre’s (and sometimes Feuilly’s) excellent use of the telescope would earn his mild interest as well as a look of reserved admiration.

 

Enjolras suddenly felt the need to get out of his chest the weight of the guilt he had been carrying up to this point, stirring Courfeyrac’s disbelieving looks as the boy was still in the mood for celebrating Gryffindor’s victory, despite the weeks that had obviouslypassed.

 

Ignoring Javert’s piercing glance on him, Enjolras dragged his eyes away from his telescope and leaned towards Grantaire’s side. He noticed a faint scent of Goblin Whiskey and tried his best to hold his breath. “Listen,” he muttered, “I’ve spent a few weeks thinking about it. I will hold a petition for the last match to be cancelled or repeated. Only after it finished I realized that you had just recovered from a full moon, and it was only unfair to compete with a healthy man, and still it was a matter of luck that I won, you played excellently.”

Grantaire backed off from his telescope but he did not turn his icy blue eyes to face Enjolras. His glance seemed to be made of steel and his features froze dangerously. “I don’t want your pity, Apollo,” he hissed quietly.  “You simply happened to exceed every single of our expectations and pale us all with the light you’re radiating. No surprises here. I don’t wish to be treated differently. I’m not your cause, I don’t need to be _fixed,_ to be helped…”

 

“I don’t wish to treat you differently,” said Enjolras in a started voice, “I don’t wish to help you, I just want us, - _everyone-_ to be equals.”

 

Grantaire smirked sarcastically. “Oh yes, _equality._ The long awaited equality that followed the Second War. Equality can’t always be achieved, you know.”

 

“You’re a pessimist,” Enjolras raised his voice.

 

 “I’m a realist,” Grantaire turned to face him, “half-breeds can’t be equals with wizards for the very simple reason that they are _condemned_ by their nature. Look at what’s happening now. They allowed me to play as a seeker in a normal team even though I will never have the same abilities with a whole, healthy wizard.”

 

“That’s not true. They allowed you to play because you were good!” protested Enjolras.

 

“Not good enough!” snapped Grantaire, and suddenly they realized that everybody in the tower had taken their eyes away from their telescopes and were staring at them.

 

Javert’s lips were pressed to a thin line but Grantaire could not hold his mouth shut anymore. “Maybe you could help with your bloody _equality_ if you treated every member of your merry band of schoolboys in the same way, and as if they are _people_ instead of _causes_. Maybe if you stopped…”

 

“What is wrong with you, Grantaire?” shouted Enjolras, his beautiful face flushed violently. “Why are you always so bitter, so sarcastic? If only you stopped drinking, if you tried then maybe you would be capable…”

 

“Oh I would be _capable,_ would I not?” spitted Grantaire with a mad chuckle. “Because now I’m useless, isn’t it?”

 

A vein was visibly pulsating on Enjolras’ pale forehead. “Maybe you are,” he hissed. “You have never proved yourself to be useful for us in the past, you never cared, you never believed.”

 

No one else on the tower managed to see the direction of the first yellow light as the two students started throwing hexes off to each other, Grantaire’s body breaking in two, Enjolras gasping as his eyebrows started growing.

 

“What is going on here!” growled Javert in a terrifying voice, stepping between telescopes and standing before them, stopping them both with a wave of his wand. His face was pulled to a horrible, threatening mask. “Who gave you the right to avoid the rules of this school and act in such an abominable way, like criminals who have just escaped Azkaban?”

Enjolras snorted at the word _criminals_ but it was amusing, in a way, as his glowing eyes could not be seen underneath the huge eyebrows that covered them.

That was the beginning of all their misfortunes. “You sound like you are quite familiar with Azkaban, Professor, don't you?” smirked Enjolras darkly.

 

A terribly frozen silence fell. “Twenty points from each house, and _detention!_ Both of you, tomorrow evening! Such disgraceful behavior will not be encouraged! Discipline shall be enforced beneath the walls of this Castle!”

_____________________________________________________________________

No matter how excellent a student Enjolras was, he had been used to earning detentions for his numerous arguments with professors. He had heard rumours about oppressive and barbaric forms of detention which were performed in Hogwarts years ago, such as hanging students from their ankles… and tying them in chains.

 

Right now he would absolutely prefer being tied in chains and at least try to cope heroically, than cleaning all the spiders and doxies from the caretaker’s closets, without using magic.

 

Together with Grantaire.

 

He would also never forgive himself for being granted said detention _because_ of Grantaire being overly sentimental after his time of the month.

 

He had tried to _help,_ for Merlin’s sake. He had struggled to achieve _equality_ between them.

 

Apparently some wizards didn’t value equality. Apprently some wizards didn’t _believe_ in it. Or in anything else, for that matter.

 

Grantaire hadn’t always disgusted him. No, he had tried to concentrate on the man’s wit, on his talents, on his Quidditch playing, he had tried to accept him in the organization and excuse his horrible, snarky rambling and excessive drinking due to his condition.

 

Grantaire had fucked his chance.

 

He was absolutely furious. He had _tried,_ Merlin dammit, he had tried. Only to be mocked at his face, laughed at and ridiculized. Why did he care, anyway? Why the hell did he care for a Slytherin cynic?

 

No, he refused to clean the spiderwebs from the caretaker’s closets _without_ magic, especially when they still had their wands in their pockets. It was so tempting to use them, but they already knew that if the caretaker found out they’d be granted with another detention, and that he most definitely could not bear. He was studying for his NEWTs, for fuck’s sake! He could be doing so many important things right now, he could be finishing his article about the size of Vampires’ coffins and practicing defensive curses and studying Ancient Runes… He could be working with Feuilly on the pamphlets about werewolves’ rights…

 

Yet here was a werewolf, a werewolf who didn’t seem to be deserving his attention or his help, a werewolf who did not wish to be helped, wasn’t it more important to try and save the mass than a single, unfaithful werewolf? A werewolf who snorted and mocked and drank…

A werewolf who was now wiping the shelves of the closets with an old, damp rag, without using any magic, the sleeves of his robes upturned, kneeled on the floor and concentrating religiously, his worn, scarred features frowning as if he was in pain.

 

Grantaire was working obediently in the way a Hufflepuff would, all the pride he should have as a Slytherin shoved away, as if he felt that detention served him right. As if he felt that he deserved it…

 

Then again, didn’t he deserve it? Of course he did!

 

The thing was that even when he hadn’t done anything, Grantaire had a look like he deserved everything bad that happened to him, like he deserved being bitten and outcasted, like he deserved the rain when the weather was bad… Maybe that stoic way he accepted his fate and faults was the reason his friends inexplicably seemed to tolerate the Slytherin seventh year.

 

Enjolras suddenly felt ashamed. He hated Grantaire, oh yes he did. He hated him because he was the reason for him to be stuck in a dark corridor, covered in filth and touching spiderwebs and doxies’ shit with his bare hands. He hated him because he always had a ready answer on the tip of his tongue, he hated him because he diminished the power of everything _he_ said. He hated him for having such huge, confusing eyes, so ridiculously blue and empty and dark and cold, and Enjolras seemed to be drowning and drowning as if they were the Black Lake…

 

Enjolras took a rag and damped it in the rusty bucket with the piss water. He hated him…

 

He wasn’t used to cleaning on his own, he had been born in a noble family of pureblood Slytherins, being the Gryffindor black sheep, yet everything had been done by house elves until he gave them clothes when he was little, and earned a good spank with his mother’s broomstick.

 

He had hardly managed to wipe a dusty shelf, scrunching his nose up, when he felt a piercing pain on his index finger. It was a disgusting little black, hairy creature with sharp fangs, which he quickly threw unconscious with his Doxycide spray, but not before leaving a cry of pain.

 

Before he could stop him, Grantaire had thrown himself up, almost tripping over his bucket, and rushed to his side. “Is our fearless leader incapable of dealing with a bunch of domestic doxies?” he snorted, grabbing Enjolras’ wrist to inspect the bite without preparing him. The blonde instinctively pulled his hand away, hissing.

 

“Let me bloody help you!” growled Grantaire, trying to reach for his hand. They were painfully close, Enjolras could smell the Firewhiskey in the other’s labored breath, Grantaire’s pupils were dilated, he could hardly make out the blue of his eyes…

 

Just then they heard the furious banging sound, produced by a shaking cupboard which they hadn’t even noticed until that point, against the wall. They slowly turned their heads and their eyes met. “Bloody hell…”

 

Enjolras let a sigh. “A boggart. Let me take care of this.”

Surprisingly enough, Grantaire immediately obliged, stepping back, his complexion having grown a little yellowish, his eyes hollow and his lips pale. Enjolras did not understand why an eighteen year old would be afraid of a _boggart,_ of all things, a creature they were taught how to confront in third year!

 

Nevertheless, he didn’t have the time to give it much thought. The boggart had already burst out of the closet and he had his wand in hand, in front of him stood his very self, smiling arrogantly, wearing his father’s dressing robes, and a house elf serving him while he held _The Daily Prophet_ open, and read in huge letters: _Muggleborn genocide._

_He had achieved nothing. Nothing. He was well-off when people were dying around him, he had become one of_ them…

 

He could do it, it was nothing but a boggart, he could do it, he wasn’t afraid of anything!

 

 _The beginning of a third war. Innocent blood spilt. Inequality. Oppression. And what had_ he _done about it?_

It was only a boggart yet his fingers were feeling limp, loose around the wood of his wand…

 

_He was rich, comfortable, pureblood, safe. He had servants, what else did he need?_

 

“RIDIKU…”

 

A huge flock of doxies fled out of the open closet in a whirlpoor, smelling the blood from the first bite and attacking his robes, making him lose his balance and fall down. He heard Grantaire’s hoarse cry piercing the air, and with a wave of the brunet’s wand, the doxies had released Enjolras who still lied on the floor.

 

It was too late. Grantaire was now standing before the boggart, pallid and sweaty, looking as if he’d get sick any minute. Enjolras needed to help him, he tried to get up and get rid of the boggart, he _did_ hate Grantaire but he hated seeing him like that even more...

 

It was too late.

 

He was a expecting to see a full moon, an empty bottle of Firewhiskey, a busty sixth year neglecting him, hell, he didn’t know what he was expecting, a _normal boggart._

Not himself. _Again_. Not scarlett robes, marble skin, wide open, steel eyes and wine red blood pouring from cherry lips as he hung from the closet.

 

It was _him,_ Enjolras was seeing himself, breathless, limp, gloriously dead, a Greek God hanging upside down, golden ringlets, red robes -or was it a flag?- waving in the wind that wasn’t even blowing in the cold corridor.

 

Blood. It was _his_ blood he was witnessing to stream down marble cheeks, pale and _dead._

He slowly turned his eyes to face Grantaire, whose bottom lip was trembling, his eyes not blinking as his glance was fixed on the bleeding, hung figure. The man tried to raise his hand holding the wand but he seemed too frozen, too ill to make a move. His skin had gone so pale that the rosy scars across his face were contrasting horribly with it.

 

“Do it, R! Do it!” cried Enjolras, afraid that the man would collapse any minute. He couldn’t believe what he was staring at, he couldn’t think about it, his blood was pounding frantically against his meninges, making any attempt of thinking impossible. “ _Do it!”_

“RIDIKULUS!” cried Grantaire, his face a mask of horror and hatred.

 

The boggart vanished in thin air with a loud pop, and before Enjolras could stand up and reach for him, the man was running like the wind, his steps muffled as he disappeared in the corridor and his black robes swishing behind him.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

Combeferre always appreciated a good walk in the Forbidden Forest in evenings, in order to put his thoughts in order and relax, coming in terms with the mystery and magic of nature that surrounded him. He hadn’t stopped this habit ever since he first came to Hogwarts, costing him two detentions, in his second and fourth year. Most of the times he was extremely careful, he respected religiously every single creature and did not push his luck, he never bothered centaurs and they did not bother him back, and he always left food for thestrals -a job Feuilly loved to help him with, as Combeferre himself could not see them.

 

It was one of the nights that Combeferre needed to clear his mind really badly. He was the most responsible and collected one of his friends, the one to always have a spare bottle of Pepperup in his bag for Joly, dittany for Bahorel’s knuckles, a pen for Jehan and yes, even Puke Pastilles for Courfeyrac; he did disapprove them, but as long as he had been assured, after brief research, that every Weasley Wizard Wheeze had been tested and was practically harmless for the receiver's health, he wouldn’t interfere to his best friend’s choices.

 

He was the only person who could change Enjolras’ mind and reason with him, the one who could make him rethink his decisions and finally nod in agreement. He was down-to-Earth, that was true. That was the exact reason he was feeling so uncomfortable with the completely unexpected and unfamiliar thoughts that interfered with his mind and distracted him from Courfeyrac’s ecstatic rambling for the kiss he stole from Jehan, from Enjolras’ angry delirium about Grantaire and his detention, and from the class of History of Magic, even though he had always been the one to pay full attention and correct Professor Bean’s mistakes together with Enjolras later.

 

He wrapped his cloak tightly around his body to protect himself from the piercing chill of November which hardly annoyed him, in fact he found it rather pleasant; clear, harsh, helpful.

 

The first fallen leaves started creaking underneath his shoes, and he inhaled greedily the chaste scent of nature, of the callused, bare wood of the ancient, high trees. It was then that he saw her, sitting on the roots of a tree, covered in a thin, black cloak, her dark hair hanging tangled and knotted like dull curtains on the sides of her face. She was waving her wand, causing a piece of rope to form wonderful, psychedelic shapes in the air.

 

He decided not to interrupt her and tried to back off, but she had already seen him and rushed to hide the rope.

 

“No, please don’t stop for me,” he blurted out, “it was beautiful.”

 

She shot him a hostile, sarcastic glance. “It was a piece of _rope_.”

 

He walked closer, crashing leaves under his step. “May I?” he asked gently, and kneeled beside her before she could reply. The rope was still hanging mid-air, and he took it between his long fingers. “Even the littlest piece of rope can hide the most extraordinary beauty. Such a talented witch should know that.” She opened her mouth to protest, looking offended, but Combeferre held a hand up. “I usually come here in search of moths.” She snorted and turned her face around but that didn’t affect him. “Wizards hate them because they open holes in their precious old, velvet curtains, but that happens due to the fact that most people of our kind don’t remember to clean our homes often enough. You see, moths are much more than holes. They can destroy whole forests, but that’s because they are strong, rebellious little creatures, capable for much more than their size indicates. They aren’t as beautiful as butterflies can be, that's true, but they are brave and talented. Magical moths can live for years, when common species live for much less, and did you know that there is a kind from whose cocoon is produced the finest silk that is used for haute couture dress robes?”

 

She had started picking the root near her boot with her dirty, eaten fingernail, huffing impatiently. “Things I can easily <em>afford</em>, of course,” she said sarcastically.

 

“They are ugly and greasy caterpillars at first, wizards have fun crashing them underneath the sole of their shoes, though little they know of their healing qualities for Dragon Pox. And then they bloom, and out of the cocoon comes,” as if out from sheer magic, a beautiful big moth flies and rests on his index finger, and he brings it closer to her face, “grace, beauty, bravery, austere and chaste elegance.” Its wings were covered in caleidoscopic shapes in grape purple, deep red and soft beige, the tips looked as if they had been painted with shimmering bronze. “You know, it reminds me of you,” he said softly.

 

He didn’t need to explain.

 

She stood still, staring at it until it fled from Combeferre’s finger, fluttering its winds gracefully. “You must probably be wondering why I decided to occupy myself with a little piece of rope.” she heard her own hoarse voice coming out of her mouth,

 

“I told you,” he said, raising his shoulders. “It’s not a simple piece of rope.”

 

“It is. That’s what I used to play with when I was little. Every time my parents grounded me, shouted and locked me in the cellar…” she bit her lip, realizing she had probably said too much, but his face was still kindly expressionless, free of pity, fear or disgust, as he nodded, “I had to occupy myself with little things. A splinter of the barrels, a thread of my dress which I kept twisting around my finger until circulation would stop and it’d become yellow, a small piece of rope… Sometimes, when everything seems deceivingly fine in school, when Azelma is socializing, carefree and youthful as she is, when Gavroche pulls pranks on the poor Fat Friar and outdoes Peeves, when Montparnasse leaves me alone, then I need to remember what we’ve left behind and what we’ll go back to. So I spend the night playing with a piece of rope.”

 

“A piece of rope capable of unexpected beauty,” he muttered, leaning closer to her, so that his cold breath would brush against her cheek. “Turn around,” he said softly. She immediately looked hostile again, even suspicious. “Turn around!”

 

Finally she obeyed. She shivered when she felt his fingers between the knots of her hair, then brushing softly against the nape of her neck. Without saying anything, he tied the rope around her hair, murmuring a few incoherent spells, making them fall on a smooth, wavy ponytail on her right shoulder, held by that very rope. “You are beautiful,” he muttered.

 

She turned her face around slowly, dark eyes glowing in the moonlight. Her voice came out quiet, nothing but a hoarse whisper. “I’m the daughter of the wolf.”

_____________________________________________________________________

 

Walking alone in the Forbidden Forest was a very Combeferrian thing to do, but Enjolras could easily understand what his best friend found to that habit. It was incredibly relieving to be close to savage nature when everything hardly seemed to make sense anymore. He didn’t have to think logically like he always did as he walked between the wild bushes and the poisonous oaks. He had to care for his survival, and that only. He didn’t have to explain anything to himself, to think of Grantaire’s boggart, of _him_ hanging dead from the broom closet, of the blood on his face and the red fabric wrapped around his body, of Grantaire’s _face_ when he stood before that illusion, a face which resembled that of a ghost.

 

He did, nevertheless.

 

He stood in the middle of the forest and clenched his fists, growling loudly as he kicked a root with all the power of his muscles. He didn’t care who would hear him, he didn’t give a rat’s tail, to be honest. He didn’t care for another detention, he didn’t care for Combeferre being around, his pulse was pounding frantically in his head, everything was too confusing.

 

His growl was paled by a blood freezing cry, a horrible, piercing howl that seemed to come from a wooden little hut in the middle of the forest, a hut he seemed to be standing before and he had never seen in the past. He stopped dead in front of it in the glade, noticing how brightly the moon was shining… He raised his eyes in the sky and his heart skipped a beat.

 

Full moon.

 

Before his body could succumb in the first stroke of terror, the wooden door of the hut burst wide open and Enjolras could now hear the most wrecking, pained howls.

 

He couldn’t think properly, he just knew that he had to save that creature with the cost of his own life. He rushed inside and was faced with the most terrifying sight he had ever witnessed in his entire life.

 

That werewolf had the hugest, human-like, blue eyes Enjolras had ever seen. His snout was short and his tale tufted. He was covered in thick, black fur, as he stood in his two back legs. His ears were pointed and his fangs bare and deadly.

 

It was Grantaire.

 

Enjolras raised his wand with trembling hands. He was a man who didn’t know fear, he was afraid of being useless and careless, as his boggart indicated, he was afraid of losing his friends, of being the reason they’d get hurt, but he hardly ever feared for his life. He now realized that it was his own growl that had confused and terrified the creature, the man who had tried to save him from a doxy bite a few hours ago, the man whose boggart was _his own dead body,_ for Merlin’s sake.

 

Grantaire did not notice him at first, and he seemed to be unconsciously hurting himself, confused and delirious, howling and biting his skin, scratching his chest in fury. He couldn’t let him hurt himself, Enjolras couldn’t.

 

He raised his wand, shouting _Petrificus Totalus,_ but the spell was ostracized, hitting awooden chair and startling the werewolf, who finally noticed Enjolras’ presence.

 

The blond man was frozen at his place as the werewolf attacked him, scratching his shoulder and drawing blood before throwing him on the floor. Enjolras finally realized in what grave danger he was, and trembling, he noticed that his wand had fallen over a meter away. A lump had swelled on his throat and his heart was pounding madly. The werewolf got ready for a second attack.

  
He was lost.

 

And then he heard a cry behind him “ _Enjolras!_ ” and another, “ _Grantaire!_ ” A white light hit the werewolf straight on the chest but did not succeed to stun him, as Combeferre and Eponine burst into the hut, both pallid and shaking, their wands raised.

 

“He’s hurt himself!” cried Eponine when he saw the bleeding werewolf, now growling furiously at her and Combeferre’s direction. “Oh, R!”

 

The bespectacled man let a cry. “Eponine, step back! He isn't himself right now!”

 

Then the werewolf stepped on his back legs and stretched its tall, slender, furry body letting the most terrifying growl they had heard, saliva dripping from his bare, bloody fangs.

 

Enjolras had managed to reach for his wand and him and Combeferre were pointing helplessly at the monster, when in front of their shocked, very eyes, Eponine jumped like in slow motion, and transformed mid-air, her hands turning to brown, furry legs, the same fur that replaced her clothes and covered her whole body, her nose turning into a long snout, her eyes becoming yellow and her ears pointy.

 

Their hearts seemed to have stopped, until Combeferre whispered steely: “The daughter of the wolf…”

 

The wolf and the werewolf fought violently, a growling mass of fur, fangs and claws. “She’s an animagus…” breathed Combeferre, reaching for Enjolras. “Run…” he hissed, “ _Run!_ ”

 

“I’m not leaving you here!” shouted Enjolras.

 

Eponine was thrown against a wall, the wolf’s back bumping hard on the wood and she let a small whimper, getting her human form as Combeferre ran to her side. Suddenly the most extraordinary thing happened: it was as if the werewolf realized he had attacked a friend. A howl of mourning echoed through the hut, and then eventually he stammered on his feet and fell unconscious on the wooden floor.

 

“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch!” moaned Eponine hoarsely as Combeferre held her bleeding arm between his wrist, summoning a bottle of dittany from the inside of his pockets. “God, he’s _hurt_!” she sobbed quietly.

 

Enjolras finally managed to gain his breath and crawled near the unconscious werewolf. “Combeferre,” he said with a shaking voice, “Combeferre, he’s bleeding.”

 

Bleeding was an understatement. Grantaire’s torso and face were covered in scratches which thankfully did not seem very deep, but the worse was a wound on his furry forehead from which scarlett blood was streaming.

 

Enjolras tore his sleeve and pressed it upon the wound. Eponine freed herself from Combeferre’s grip and crawled near them. Her own arm had already healed, thanks to the dittany elixir, but she was sobbing hysterically. “Bloody moron,” she whimpered, stroking a limp paw.

 

The first stray sunrays had just started entering through the crevices of the wooden walls while Combeferre was pouring drops of dittany all over the wounds that looked in the worst state, and soon, unconscious Grantaire started returning to his human form. Eponine was quick enough to throw a blanket over him and cover his nudity, as collected Combeferre pressed two fingers on the injured boy’s pulsepoint. “He’s going to be fine,” he muttered. “He’s just hit his head, probably against a wall. The bleeding has almost stopped. He might get a concussion, that’s the only thing that worries me, but Madame Pomfrey has fixed worse wounds. We’ll take him to the infirmary and he’ll be fine.”

 

Enjolras nodded mechanically, looking more shocked and pale than ever.

 

“No!” growled Eponine. “I will take him to the infirmary, I’ve done it before. It’s a simple _Levicorpus._ It will be alright if he sees me, but if he wakes up and finds you here he’ll _die_ from the guilt, do you understand?”

 

Enjolras stood up, his features pulled in a cold mask of pain. “You have no right…”

 

“He's my best friend, I have _all the bloody rights!_ What are YOU to him, Apollo?” Combeferre tried to open his mouth for Enjolras’ defence, but Eponine pointed her wand at the two of them. A hint of mad conviction sparked in her glowing eyes. “Grantaire will be fine as he’s been many times before, but he will never know. _Never._ I won’t let this happen to him. Now go.” The two boys didn’t dare to move. “GO!”

 

Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’ wrist and started running quickly in the breaking dawn of the Forbidden Forest. Grantaire would be alright, they knew it. Eponine was an animagus, they’d learnt it.

 

If Enjolras had not keep on running, stumbling on roots and fungi and get up again, he would probably have fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R will be fine. Don't worry. The point of this chapter was not to worry you about R's life, Poppy Pomfrey will sure as hell heal him. 
> 
> But yeah, animagus Eponine. I know it's absolutely ridiculous as I haven't mentioned anything about it since now, but it occurred to me after I thought of "the daughter of the wolf" and I needed to write it.
> 
> SORRY FOR ALL THE MELODRAMATIC CRACK!
> 
> I repeat, unchecked chapter, I repeat, I have to go to the Opera and I'll check it when I come back!


	4. A walk in Hogsmeade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is one thing… Only one thing that I want you to change…”
> 
> The dark-haired boy could hardly believe what he was hearing, he seemed intoxicated, unable to think or to react in any way. “What is it, Apollo?”
> 
> “That horrible, renewable cigarette,” Enjolras blurted out, flushed and fierce. “That horrid nickname too, but especially your cigarette.”
> 
> “What about it?” breathed Grantaire hoarsely.
> 
> “I want you to drop it.” His fingers wrapped tightly around Grantaire’s wrists. “Because I’m about to kiss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will be right to say whatever you want. Really, you'll have the right to jinx me. And do a Bat-Bogey hex on me. It took me ages to update. But I promised you I would and I promise you I will finish this story, even though it might a take a while for inspiration to strike. Thank you for waiting and thank you for reading, any suggestions or feedback would be more than welcome!  
> To make up, here, have some fluff with the boys!

It was the end of November. The skies were full with grey clouds, and no sunlight entered the wide windows, so that the iron chandelier in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom had to be lit despite the fact that it was morning. The flying notes they exchanged resembled terribly of butterflies wandering around in the classroom, so that hardly anyone noticed. Combeferre leaned forward, nodding to Enjolras and deftly waved his wand for the note to land in his open palm. He slowly unwrapped it and his eyes flickered across it.

 

**I want to visit him at the infirmary. –E**

He let a small sigh and adjusted his spectacles on his nose in order to slide the bridge of his hand underneath and rub a tired eye. It was obvious that he hadn’t managed to get any sleep at all that night, though none of their friends had asked what had happened. He quickly scribbled a response with his neat handwriting on the back of the note, and waving his wand, sent it flying to Enjolras’ desk.

 

**You can’t, Enjolras. He’s not well enough for that. –C**

Their glances met across the desks and Combeferre felt his heart sinking at the hint of fear in his brave friend’s tired face as he receives the paper butterfly once again.

 

**How do you know? Did Eponine tell you? –E**

A lump settled uncomfortably on Combeferre’s throat and he rubbed his temple with his thumb and index finger before replying.

 

**I met Jehan in the library, he visited him and said he was a mess. Eponine isn’t speaking to me. –C**

Enjolras’ expression seemed pained as he read the reply multiple times. In all honesty, Combeferre knew that despite his awkwardness when it came to personal relationships, the Gryffindor team captain was extremely caring for his friends, but he would never have guessed that with Grantaire it would happen _that_ way.

 

**I want to see him, apologize. It was my fault the wolf got so furious. –E**

**Of course it was not your fault, don’t blame yourself. You know how sometimes he deliberately doesn’t take his Wolfsbane, you know that he does his best to lose contact with his environment. You should never let him know we were there. –C**

Courfeyrac had been looking terribly frustrated for quite a while now, so Enjolras was not surprised to receive a flying snitch made from crumpled paper instead of a butterfly. With a small sigh he opened it and read.

 

**_It’s not very nice of you to keep your best friend out of your cozy catchup. What is it E, you know that you can always rely on me for advice when it comes to the matters of the heart! –Courf_ **

****

Despite his weariness, Enjolras could not hold back a small smile. He always relied on Courfeyrac to make him feel better and defuse the tention, that was true, and he was quite thankful for the fact. Taking his quill in his hand he scribbled a reply on the other side of the paper and waved his wand lightly.

 

They should have expected that Professor Valjean would eventually notice –or stop pretending that he hadn’t already- so that when he turned around and pointed at the paper ball with his wand, causing it to dramatically fly straight into the bin, as if it was a goalpost, they weren’t surprised. Neither were they surprised when he ordered Enjolras to stand up and perform a nonverbal Patronus charm, as well as when the young student succeeded without much difficulty.

 

Enjolras eyes moved at his friends. Courfeyrac snorted under his breath, making faces behind Valjean’s back. As for Combeferre, he shrugged his shoulders apologetically and mouthed _He’s going to be alright._

 

He wasn’t referring to Courfeyrac.

_____________________________________________________________________

The news that the first Hogsmeade visit of the year had been planned for that Saturday hardly made any difference to Grantaire. It wasn’t only that despite the fact that after the Second Wizarding World when the secret passages had been blocked, Grantaire and Eponine had found new ones. It was that he didn’t feel like it. He had returned to his classes but he still felt weak from his transformation, most of his wounds were still healing and the fact that he felt that something had gone terribly wrong without remembering anything made everything worse. Eponine had scratches around her face and her arm had been bandaged for a couple of days. He knew, _hew knew_ that she had been there. She refused to tell him anything, she insisted that everything was fine but he felt guilty, guilty for helping her become an animagus in first place several years ago, guilty for allowing her to come in the transformations every other full moon, guilty for not protecting her enough like he had promised to himself that he would. He had been selfish, so terribly selfish to not take his potion. It was true that in the complete absence of Wolfbane in his system he could forget everything during the full moon, drift into oblivion and become a different, dark creature that did not feel, hurt or love. It was salvation, but now he had gotten his best friend in danger.

 

The things that could’ve happened to her… He didn’t even want to imagine.

 

And it wasn’t only that. How could he forget the boggart? The terrifying image of Enjolras hanging from the cupboard dead, the _horrible_ image of the real, alive Enjolras witnessing this, the dead on his face, the red wrapped around him, how could he have let that happened, how ashamed he was…

 

He didn’t attend the two following meetings. Jehan, his blond -that day- hair braided across his forehead, had carefully told him that Enjolras had been asking about him after the full moon, that he wanted to see him.

 

Grantaire absolutely freaked out. That was impossible. He couldn’t accept a pity visit from Enjolras, this had already gone too far. The quidditch meeting, the detention… He had exposed himself too much, he had been such a classic fool. Enjolras was good, Enjolras was brave, Enjolras was beautiful, Enjolras was _perfect._ Grantaire wasn’t. Simple as that. The Gryffindor leader could feel nothing but pity for the filthy, dark Slytherin.

 

Courfeyrac tried to invite him to a snowfight with Jehan. Joly and Bossuet brought him firewhiskey sneakily. Feuilly and Bahorel brought him cigarettes and notes for the classes he’d missed that they’d hex-blackmailed Montparnasse in giving them. Combeferre shot him worried looks throughout the corridors. Enjolras tried to approach him a couple of times, but Grantaire always had something to do, a class to attend, an essay to finish.

 

In all honest, all he had to do was drink. He drank and drank until he could forget the shame. Pity, sheer pity, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, all of them. Enjolras had told them.

 

So he got drunk. And forgot about them all.

 

Eponine and Jehan wouldn’t let him stay behind.

 

“Come on,” she threw her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. “Hog’s head. Think of it.”

 

He did.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

Thick snowflakes had started falling the previous night and the students of Hogwarts had woken up to find a thick layer of snow covering the ground and the towers outside the windows. Hogsmeade was beautiful this time of the year. The small, picturesque village with the wooden houses and cottages all around,  the interesting wizards in the pointed hats and colorful cloaks, doing their shopping in Dervis&Banges and Gladrags Wizardwear  was a very pleasant sight to change a bit from the school routine, especially for the seventh years who were drowned under tons of papers and studying to be finished. Enjolras, however, was not really in the mood to appreciate the charm of the village and the pleasant buzzing of the traffic today, especially when he had all these books to read and things to roganize.

They were sitting in the Three Broomsticks and he was peeking in his butterbeer with a spoon half-heartedly. He had ordered it in order to get warmer; they were absolutely freezing in the cold weather, their noses red and their teeth chattering until they entered the crowded shop, wrapped in several layers of wool –Jehan had knitted his own bright pink beanie that resembled a pygmy puff against his lilac wavy hair, as well as his slightly disturbing patchwork sweater with a huge green bat with googly eyes. Enjolras’ throat, however, seemed to be occupied by an uncomfortable lump that made it difficult to swallow even the warm, sweet beverage.

 

Joly and Bossuet had just returned from Honeydukes with their pockets full with candies –Joly’s pockets at least, as there apparently was a hole in Bossuet’s, causing them to lose half of their Canary Creams, Fizzing Whizbees and Ice Mice. Joly had just tasted an Acid Pop and he was convinced that a huge hole had started burning through his tongue, which he had stuck out and examining in a mirror. Combeferre was in vain trying to reassure him that every hole caused in the muscle by acid pops would grow again until the end of the day, until Joly’s face froze, with his tongue stuck out of his mouth.

 

“What is it now, Jol?” asked Courfeyrac with a small, amused smile that granted him a warning look behind Combeferre’s spectacles. “Is it scrofungulus?”

 

Joly slowly swallowed his tongue and shut his mouth. His cheeks had been colored by a flush so violent, that Bossuet seemed convinced that for once, Joly was indeed feverish. “It’s her,” croaked the thin student, causing Bossuet to immediately go pale, as if it was a secret only these two were sharing. “I saw her through the mirror.”

 

“Musichetta?” asked Jehan, holding back a gentle smile with a hint of mischief. “Well, we _are_ at the Three Broomsticks. She was the one that served us.”

 

“Yes,” Joly’s voice came out strangled. “But now she’s _staring_!”

 

Enjolras resisted the urge to hide his face in his palms as all of his friends –including Combeferre- turned their heads in synchronization to stare at the juicy, curvy waitress with the chocolate skin and dark, curly hair on whom both Joly and Bossuet had had a crush on since their fourth year. To their absolute shock, she waved her fingers with a small smile, and winked to Bossuet’s direction. Needless to say, Bossuet grew redder than Joly and dropped his goblet, spilling butterbeer all over the floor, him and Joly. Joly immediately started yelling that the liquid was going to stick on his clothes for the rest of the day and in the mayhem of Courfeyrac and Jehan’s laughter and Combeferre’s quiet snickering they hardly noticed Musichetta who was coming over with a flying mop following her and waved her hand for a towel to fly and wipe Joly and Bossuet’s trousers, almost making them choke on their breath instead of casting a simple _Scurgify._ In front of everyone’s shocked eyes, she leaned forward and whispered throatily with her eyes moving between them both. “I finish at six, boys! Find a way to not return to the castle!” And then she disappeared after pinching Joly’s cheek lightly, her tight robes clinging charmingly on her swaying hips.

Courfeyrac’s bright green eyes had opened so widely that it seemed like they would explode any minute. “How the bogey fuck did you do that?”

 

“I don’t know,” choked Bossuet, sipping some of his beer quickly, resulting to some more choking. Combeferre, who hit him between the shoulderblades, could not hold his own look of admirance.

 

“We’re going to skip classes! Oh Merlin, we’re going to skip classes!” paniced Joly in a low, shrieking voice.

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “About time, on your last year!”

 

Joly and Bossuet who shared everything, from their cat, Magenta, to their cauldron and heated slippers, exchanged a bewildered look, realizing what had just happened.

 

“Do you… you know, mind?” asked Joly, taking sneaky glimpses of laughing Musichetta behind the counter.

 

Bossuet shook his bald head –a side effect from a hex he had once received from Bahorel, his hair was still growing even though Joly insisted that he looked cute that way. “No, why would I mind! Would you?”

 

“No no, of course not!”

 

Jehan, who had been beaming widely until then, leaned over the table and whispered to Enjolras. “He’s here, he came.”

 

Enjolras took a sip of his butterbeer, wishing that his heartbeat wasn’t loud enough to be heard all around the shop. “Who came?” he asked, trying to play it indifferent.

 

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Grantaire. Grantaire came. I just thought you might want to know.”

 

Courfeyrac leaned closer with a teasing smirk. “You’ve got it bad, man. Very bad indeed!”

 

Enjolras felt his ears and cheeks burning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I would terribly appreciate it if you finally left me the fuck alone.”

 

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to protest but Combeferre shot him a warning glance. “Courfeyrac,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”

 

Courfeyrac stretched his body over the table, his eyes narrowing evilly. “You,” he said slowly to his best friend, “have foam on your _mouth_.”

 

An embarrassed Combeferre was desperately trying to lick the foam of the corner of his mouth when Feuilly and Bahorel entered, exchanging punches with each other as they probably fought again about something, Feuilly with a cigarette hanging between his lips, his pale nose flushing red, Bahorel’s bags full with tricks from Zonko’s. They approached their table, and when they loudly started shouting about Frog Spawn Soaps, Nose-Biting Teacups and Dungbombs, Enjolras realized that he needed some fresh air.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

They liked Madame Puddifoot’s teashop non-ironically. They weren’t ashamed to admit it. What was wrong with that? Yes, it was tacky, but it cheered them up, it made them feel _good,_ there was nothing to be ashamed of. The bright floral tapisseries and the golden and pastel hues made a gloomy day bright, it was warm and cozy and no one cared about what they did in there because every couple was already rather preoccupied with each other. Not to mention that Madame Puddifoot served the best blackberry tea with dragon milk and bee biscuits, and that the cherubs were absolutely adorable. Plus, confettis looked beautiful upon Jehan’s lilac hair.

 

They were smiling in delight, holding gloved hands tightly, snowflakes melting on their noses and eyelashes, discussing Joly and Bossuet’s unexpected success when they entered through the door and the small bell tingled. The tables were full with lovey dovey couples and they immediately spotted a certain one. “Of course,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes in amusement, and walked towards the boy who slept on the bed near him in the dormitories.

 

Marius Pontmercy didn’t seem exactly happy to see them, maybe because he had just managed to hold Cosette’s hand after hours –sometimes he tended to forget that they were already a couple- and was now proceeding to kiss her over the cakes on the table, or because he appeared to be rather overdressed –it _was_ their first date outside the Castle-, sporting some shiny black dress robes instead of the Muggle jumpers or wizarding cloaks and warm boots everyone else seemed to be wearing. Of course Cosette was dressed in a puffy, light blue dress and matching mittens, so maybe he was excused.

 

Courfeyrac threw his arms around his friend, beaming widely and placing a sloppy kiss on the top of his head. “Oh _look_ at our little boy growing old, how proud we all are of you Mar-Mar!” Cosette grimaced at the sound of the ridiculous nickname but couldn’t help to laugh genuinely. “Hello, Courfeyrac,” she said and the dark haired man made a dramatic pirouette until he reached her seat and sat himself on her lap, causing her to burst into giggles and Marius to grow redder than his strawberry pie. “Good morning, mademoiselle,” he took her hand in his own and pressed his lips on it, then threw himself up. “Well, now I have a certain metamorphmagus to attend, so have fun kids and remember to stay safe, Cosette be careful, don't let him near any aphrodisiac soaps that change scents because he’s _so_ allergic, a contraceptive charm is always recommended…”

 

“I hate you…” Marius mouthed, his eyes fixed on an insignificant spot on the wall opposite them, not seeming to have any connection with his surroundings. Cosette smiled tenderly and winked at Courfeyrac before offering her boyfriend a glass of water. Jehan came and threw an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “Come on,” he smiled softly, “I think you broke poor Marius!”

 

They took their seats on an empty table and ordered Oompa Loopma hot chocolate and blackberry tea. Jehan was beautiful, his lilac hair sprawled all over his shoulders, his jumper huge and fluffy, his slim figure floating in it and Courfeyrac knew that it would be soft if he touched it, it would smell of safety and flowers… Their fingers entangled over the table. “God it’s so tacky,” snickered Jehan at the flying cherubs.

 

“I know,” smirked Courfeyrac in his mismatching bowtie and bright blue dungarees underneath his cloak. “That’s why I love it!”

 

“So do I!”

 

“I’ve never seen you morph anything apart from your hair,” noticed Courfeyrac. “I’d love to!”

 

“You only needed to ask,” chuckled Jehan, scrunching up his nose and shutting his eyes tightly, until his ears were pointy and peeking underneath his hair, resembling those of an elf.

 

“You’re beautiful,” breathed Courfeyrac.

 

Jehan laughed softly and scrunched up his features again until his fangs were sharp and long, like those of a vampire.

 

“Still beautiful!”

 

“I can do some ridiculous ones and believe me I won't be beautiful _then_ , like a toad or a toothless goblin, but I’ll leave this until we’re alone at the Castle…”

 

“I have better plans for when we’ll be alone at the Castle,” whispered Courfeyrac, making Jehan blush.

 

“This,” muttered the poet after taking a sip of his tea, “is my favorite.” And frowning again in concentration, whiskers and pointy ears appeared on his head, his eyes became narrow and yellow and his nose tiny and snouty. “A cat?” laughed Courfeyrac as Jehan changed back to his normal self with a chuckle. “It was adorable! Weird, but adorable.”

 

“I love cats,” sighed Jehan dreamily, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”

 

Courfeyrac leaned over the table, his fingers playing with a lilac lock until his palm cupped Jehan’s cold cheek. “I love poets,” he murmured softly, “I’ve always wanted a poet.”

 

And he pressed his lips against Jehan’s pulling him into a slow, chaste kiss. He could feel the poet smile against his lips as he slid his fingers through his dark curls. “And I love you.”

_____________________________________________________________________

Combeferre found Grantaire and Eponine walking out of the Hog’s Head and quickly made his way towards them. “Hello,” he smiled to the both of them, eventually turning to Grantaire, “it’s good to see you. We have missed you at the meetings.”

 

“That’s true,” Eponine rushed to assure her friend, shooting Combeferre a thankful glance. It was a fact that they had all been significantly worried for their friend’s absence, because even though Grantaire could not see it they _did_ consider him their friend and they _did_  care for him,

 

“Yeah,” a little color spread over Grantaire’s pale face. “I’ve been busy,” he muttered, fishing in the pocket of his leather jacket for a packet of cigarettes and his wand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a smoke to the Shrieking Shack where the teachers won’t see me.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Combeferre chuckled softly. “They act like blind for the seventh years. Feuilly has been smoking at Hogsmeade since last year.”

 

Grantaire cracked a small, forced smile. “Right, I’ll see you guys later.” He nodded to his best friend. “’Ponine.”

 

And with that, he turned around and disappeared before Eponine could stop him.

 

She was left alone with Combeferre for the first time since the full moon and she didn’t know how she felt about it. It was true that things had gotten a little weird – _intimate-_ before it had all gone to hell that night, but there still was Marius –Eponine had seen him enter Maddame Puddifoot’s teashop with Cosette earlier- and she couldn'd hardly identify her emotions following that. Yes, many things had already happened to keep her occupied lately, what with Gavroche’s third detention and Azelma’s involvement with Claquesous, the full moon and her bad marks that desperately needed to be fixed, and she didn’t have enough time to think about Pontmercy and his love life. It had mostly become a habit, as had become her makeout sessions with Montparnasse, of which she didn’t seem like she could get away, but that was a mutual agreement, when Marius didn’t even care for her existence. She realized that despite her being used to thinking about him, her sentiments weren’t that strong anymore, they was weaker, they was fading.

 

And Combeferre… oh Combeferre was an entirely different story.

 

“Do you want to walk a little?” he asked her when they were left alone and she nodded hesitantly, biting her lower lip. "I wanted to congratulate you."

 

"On what thing?" she asked suspiciously.

 

"Your animagus form. It was some excellent magic, I can only think of three other genius wizards in history who could achieve the transformation as well as you did."

 

"Thank you," she muttered. "Grantaire needs me. He always did."

 

“How is he?” asked Combeferre with concern, as they started walking, their boots drowning in the soft snow with every step. “Did you tell him anything?”

 

Eponine shook her head, putting her gloveless hands in the pockets of her cloak. “No. He’s not well, Combeferre,” she had gradually started to feel more comfortable in his presence. “He’s drinking and I doubt he’s getting any sleep. I worry.”

 

Combeferre frowned slightly. He doubted as _she’d_ be getting any sleep as well. “Enjolras cares, you know. He’s not very good at showing it, but he cares.”

 

Eponine raised an eyebrow and stopped walking. “I really hope you are right, you know.”

 

Combeferre nodded fervently. “He does. I trust him. He’ll do what he thinks is right. And if he doesn’t we’ll help him find out. We’ll help them.”

 

"Sometimes your friend is such an oblivious toerag!" she snorted and Combeferre chuckled softly.

 

Her glance was travelling far away, over the cottages and white hills, somewhere Combeferre couldn’t identify. “And you?” he asked quietly.

 

“What about me?” Eponine’s voice was hostile as she took her shaking hands off her pockets. It had stopped snowing a while ago but the temperature was below zero and her beanie and old, patched jacket hardly helped with the cold. She couldn’t help shivering, her teeth were chattering and Combeferre immediately felt guilty for not realizing earlier. His gloveless hands instinctively came to wrap around her own, that felt like ice cubes.

 

“Are _you_ alright?” he muttered with genuine concern. “Your hands are cold.”

 

She pulled away, looking rather upset. “I’m fine.” Her glance was searching around. If Montparnasse saw them she was fucked.

 

To her absolute shock, he took off his warm navy coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Your jacket is very thin,” he said gently. “You’ll freeze to death.”

 

Eponine pressed her lips into a thin line and her brow frowned. She handed the coat back to him. She looked extremely offended when she spoke accusingly. “People want to save me,” she growled. “To _fix_ me. What if I can't afford a warmer cloak? I’m not broken, Combeferre.” She turned her eyes away. “I don't need to be fixed.”

 

Combeferre took a step forward and they were close, so close that she could feel the smoke of cold mist that escaped his mouth against her skin. His voice was gentle and warm, warmer than his coat, and suddenly she felt like her insides were full of chocolate and butterbeer and _safety_ and she forgot how to breathe properly. “I don’t want to fix you,” he whispered softly. His eyes had the color of hot chocolate. “I just want to be there. Eponine…” she finally turned to stare at him, breathless. “I just want to hold your hand. Will you let me hold your hand?”

 

His hands were big, soft and warm around her own. Her eyes fell down on them and her heart leaped in her chest.

 

Slowly, she nodded.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

He found him at the bottom of the hill the Shrieking Shack was built on. He was facing the wooden, mouldering hut and Enjolras could only see his back. His shoulders were slumped in his khaki jacket, a shock of wild, black curls peeking underneath a green beanie. He was holding a cigarette between his fingers, Enjolras could see the smoke flying around his head as he approached him, walking slowly in the snow. He looked small, vulnerable, and he caused something inside Enjolras to clench uncomfortably.

 

Grantaire noticed him when he was close enough, and he tried to leave, to pretend he didn’t see him, but Enjolras blocked his way, his cheeks flushed as he’s breathing quickly, frost escaping his red parted lips. “You can’t run away forever, you know,” he murmured, and Grantaire stopped. Enjolras’ insides ached. The dark-haired man looked awful. The dark circles underneath his pale blue eyes were more prominent than ever and that wound on his nose would definitely scar.

 

He realized that there was no point in trying to deny Enjolras anymore, so he rubbed his temple with his gloveless fingers. The Gryffindor student noticed that they were dry and bleeding from the cold. “Be my guest, then,” he finally smirked, showing a few yellowish, crooked teeth, before reaching in his pocket for a packet. “Cigarette?” he offered.

 

Enjolras shook his head as he joined him, resting his elbows against the fence that separated them from the Shack. “I don’t smoke.”

 

Grantaire nodded. “Of course you don’t.”

 

“Are you enjoying your day?” asked Enjolras rather stupidly after a while, only to break the silence.

 

“Much,” Grantaire took a drag of smoke before smiling amusedly. “Montparnasse was here a while ago, you know.”

 

Enjolras snorted in contempt. “Was he?”

 

“Indeed he was.” It was a magical cigarette that did not ever burn and finish, and Enjolras hated how Grantaire kept smoking it, it was slow and torturous, no end put to his process of self-destruction. “He said some things about you and your group. They weren’t very nice.”

 

The Gryffindor shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t give a rat’s tail.” He frowned slightly. “It’s your group too, don’t speak as if you’re not a part of it.”

 

“He certainly didn’t see that stinging hex coming. He was screaming like a banshee, it wasn’t really attractive.”

 

“You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

 

“I doubt he’ll even have the courage to turn me in. He shouldn’t go on speaking like that about you.”

 

Something jumped inside Enjolras' stomach. “I can defend myself, you know.”

 

Grantaire sucked in his smoke. “Of course you can,” he muttered hoarsely.

 

A brown owl flew over their heads, its wands making a swishing sound through they wind and their eyes followed it slowly. They remained silent for a while. “Do you know the real purpose of the Shrieking Shack here?” he asked quietly.

 

It took a while but Enjolras finally nodded. “I do.”

 

They didn’t need to say more. Images of that horrible night filled Enjolras’ mind. It was the same creature, the same _man_ he was now standing before. Grantaire didn’t know that Enjolras had seen him as a werewolf, that he’d seen the wrath in the eyes of the furry creatures, that he almost got killed by him. Now Enjolras understood Eponine’s words. Even if Enjolras happened to care – _or whatever it was that he felt for-_ Grantaire now, even if now he could _see_ what was invisible in the past, the Slytherin could never know. It would break him in a million different pieces. Grantaire couldn’t allow this.

 

“Thank you,” he muttered finally, cursing his timing and his way with people.

 

“For what?”

 

“For what you did. With Montparnasse.”

 

Grantaire chuckled softly, slightly surprised. “No big deal.”

 

Enjolras couldn’t stand this anymore. Grabtaire looking away, looking distant, his glance lost in the white sky and the snow on the hill. He wanted to show him it was alright, to show him that he was worth more than he thought, to take this damn cigarette of his mouth, Enjolras felt confused, his heart was pounding inside his chest and he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what he wanted.

 

“Grantaire!” he said boldly, startling the other man. “Look at me, for Merlin’s sake!”

 

The Slytherin student slowly obeyed, looking as if he was sure that Enjolras had for once drunk too much goblin wine. His eyes were blue, so blue and that cigarette between his thin lips…

 

“You are… you are great. You are talented, I know that you paint beautiful bewitched pictures, you are an excellent quidditch player and… you are clever, I hate it when we argue just because you manage to shake my opinions, no matter how strong they might be, even the most absurd of your arguments are justified and well-thought and…” Grantaire was breathless, frozen, his expression that of absolute shock, his blue eyes wide open, “and you’re beautiful, Grantaire, you’re good and caring even if you don’t want people to know and you’re _beautiful._ But there is one thing… Only one thing that I want you to change…”

 

The dark-haired boy could hardly believe what he was hearing, his heart was ready to explode, he seemed intoxicated, unable to think or to react in any way. “What is it, Apollo?”

 

“That horrible, renewable cigarette,” Enjolras blurted out, flushed and fierce. “That horrid nickname too, but especially your cigarette.”

 

“What about it?” breathed Grantaire hoarsely.

 

“I want you to drop it.” His fingers wrapped tightly around Grantaire’s wrists. “Because I’m about to kiss you.”

 

And with that, he released one wrist and took the disgusting cigarette between his fingers, dropping it on the snow and stepping on it with his boot. Before Grantaire could take a breath and realize whether he was dreaming or not, Enjolras had pressed his lips against his own, hands cupping his raw cheeks, kissing him fiercely, mouths clashing as he tasted the smoke and the alcohol and smelled the wood and the paint and the ink on Grantaire’s skin, moving slowly against his lips and tracing his tongue upon them until the dark haired boy would respond, sliding his fingers through Enjolras’ fair locks and leaning closer in his embrace as a quiet moan escaped from the bottom of his throat.

 

It was only when they heard cheers and shouts that they broke they kiss, breathing heavily against each other as their foreheads came to rest together. Eponine, Combeferre, Jehan and Courfeyrac were standing on the snow, wrapped in coats and scarves. Courfeyrac had thrown her arms around Eponine and they were wolf-whistling while Combeferre and Jehan rolled their eyes and smiled. “About time,” they said, and while a flushed, breathless Grantaire gave them all a gesture with his fingers that would have caused Javert to hold a petition for young students to be accepted in Azkaban, Enjolras realized how right their friends were.


	5. Leaving Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now Enjolras had heard stories of the Room taking the form of a mere broom cupboard, but that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting when he turned the handle of the door with his hand. “We must have done something wrong,” he muttered, but was surprised to feel Grantaire’s grip tightening around his wrist and pulling him inside. 
> 
> “On the contrary, my fearless leader," smirked Grantaire, "I believe we couldn't have done anything more right if we tried."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I know that nothing particularly interesting or revolutionary happened in this story and I know that a Harry Potter crossover would give me much ground for me to achieve that but I wanted some happiness and fluff between those two so I wrote it. Please don't judge me, I adore Harry Potter pickup lines and I'm sure that Courfeyrac would use them all the time!  
> Thank you for your feedback during this story and I really hope you enjoyed it! Now I will work hard on my two other stories, La Boheme and The Origin of Love, and who knows, maybe a one-shot or two? You can always give me prompts or suggestions that you'd like to see and I will try my best to make you smile!  
> Enjoy xxxx

Courfeyrac had talked to Enjolras about the Room of Requirement. They knew that young wizards had always used it to meet secretly and practice Defence Against the Dark Arts, yet they didn’t need to meet secretly anymore. Student organizations were allowed, under circumstances of course, after the second war, and the A.B.Ai.S.S.E.s meetings were not secret. At least not much. However Courfeyrac had seeked for a place where he could get more intimate with the various young witches and wizards he had been involved with in the past, and now that he was head-over-heels with Jehan, he had led the metamorphmagus several times in it and they had both come out of it with tousled hair, flushed cheeks and meaningful smiles, making Enjolras feel supremely uncomfortable and the rest of their friends to bet whether the room turned into a green meadow full of daisies (Cosette) or a place full of leather accessories, liquid chocolate and magical fluffy handcuffs (Bahorel). 

Absurd as might have seemed, it had all started with a ridiculous line. “If you were a basilisk, I wouldn’t mind dying just to look into your eyes,” had whispered Grantaire seductively in his ear, sending warm breath to brush against his skin and raise the short hair on the nape of his neck. Enjolras wished he could have laughed in amusement or frown in disdain, but neither happened. He just found his pulse suddenly growing quicker and his tie tighter around his neck. He needed to kiss Grantaire breathless, to touch him and love him and show him what he meant for him, how important it was that they were _together,_ if they could call it that way. 

They quickly climbed the stairs to the seventh floor, without them changing once. They were walking close to each other but they weren’t holding hands. Their knuckles were faintly touching and they were both flushed with anticipation, looking around sneakily as they walked in the left corridor and finally saw the tapestry depicting the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. 

“We must think fiercely of what we need,” muttered Enjolras, and Grantaire stirred a little at his side, leaning closer and murmuring mischievously in his ear: “Do you need any help thinking?” 

Enjolras’ lips parted slightly in need and he nodded. “Hurry!” His voice was familiarly dominant and Grantaire simply loved the effect he had on the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. 

“Well then,” he hissed in his ear, using a finger to play with a stray golden lock behind his lobe, “I don't have an invisibility cloak but do you think tonight I can visit your restricted section?” 

Enjolras’ eyes slid shut in a pained grimace that bore a hint of shame. He absolutely despised the fact that _he_ was actually _falling_ for something so stupid. “I hate you,” he huffed, burying his fingernails in Grantaire’s wrist. “I think we must walk past it three times now, right?” 

Grantaire nodded with an innocent look. “I say we should try.” 

And they did. Enjolras was feeling absolutely ridiculous doing that, but the corridor was empty and no one could see them. He desperately needed some time alone with Grantaire, he had for long and now that was his chance, even though he wouldn’t yet admit that aloud. 

He opened his eyes and felt terribly relieved and overwhelmingly nervous at the same time when he saw the secret door appearing in front of them. 

Now Enjolras had heard stories of the Room taking the form of a mere broom cupboard, but that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting when he turned the handle of the door with his hand. He had thought of _what_ he needed, but not of _in what form_ it should appear, to be honest, and that was probably why he was unpleasantly shocked when all he found was a tiny hole of a closet, full with broomsticks, mops and buckets. “We must have done something wrong,” he muttered, but was surprised to feel Grantaire’s grip tightening around his wrist and pulling him inside. 

“On the contrary, my fearless leader. I believe we couldn't have done anything more right if we tried. The room has probably decided that what we need is a broom closet, and that is what it gave us. Are you willing to oppose to such powerful magic? Unless you had something else in mind. Something which included, I don’t know, fluffy handcuffs and red heart confettis.” 

Enjolras winced in horror as they squeezed into the cupboard and shut the door, making everything go dark around them. They curled their bodies uncomfortably between the buckets and mops and to the general uneasiness came to be added the complete darkness which drove both of them blind. 

“Lovely,” tuted Enjolras. 

“Ouch!” Grantaire’s muffled cry managed to echo through the close walls around them before Enjolras pressed his palm against his boyfriend’s mouth. “By bose!” he protested nasaly. 

“Shut up!” hissed Enjolras. 

It was Grantaire’s turn to tut disapprovingly. “What language is that, Apollo? I’d rather you speak troll. You can learn it fast, you know.” He threw his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, pulling softly as he pressed his lips on his pulse point. “Because I can get you grunting in no time!” 

“Shut up,” said Enjolras again, leaving a deep sigh and tugging on the collar of Grantaire’s robes, “and kiss me!” 

Grantaire was more than willing to obey, so he pressed his lips on Enjolras’ mouth, cupping his face and capturing him to a fierce kiss. They moved together fervently and he traced his tongue across his lower lip before nibbling there with his teeth and eliciting a throaty moan. Enjolras tasted the inside of the Slytherin’s mouth lazily, pressing their bodies together and feeling his erratic heartbeat beneath his robes. 

“Oh, Enjolras,” groaned Grantaire quietly against his mouth, “I can be your house elf, I'll do whatever you want and I don't need any clothes!” 

“That’s not very nice… for the house elves,” murmured Enjolras, “I detect a form… of social discrimination… in your offer…” he was short of breath. “And…” he panted, “if you step on my new robes…” his fingers reached for Grantaire’s green tie, trying to unknot it, “I swear to Merlin…” 

Grantaire chuckled softly before shutting him up with a second kiss, his hands stroking his chest and arms over the robes and, remembering faintly of all the times he had seeked for the Room of Requirement’s service every time he had needed some liquor in the past, he came to the decision that that day should be written down on history books as the Room’s greatest achievement.

_____________________________________________________________________

Days passed and became months before they could even say _Quidditch._ Their NEWTs were just around the corner and all the seventh year had started growing almost hysteric, for which they were not really to blame, considering the fact that their future was depending on it. The frenzy of rumours, tricks and remedies was holding well, in the exact same manner as during the OWLs, and fake charms and potions were sold only to be confiscated by Professor Javert. Many seventh years, mostly Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, were fainting or vomiting in the toilets every day. It wasn’t that Slytherins and Gryffindors weren’t equally anxious, they simply managed to disguise their insecurities better. 

Some of the students seemed already doomed to fail, like Claquesous and Babet, but others were studying really hard, even those who had never done so in the past. Grantaire, Bossuet, Bahorel too, were catching up with everything they had missed with excessive help from their teachers and friends, while Joly, Marius and even Enjolras were experiencing a few nervous breakdowns. As for Feuilly and Combeferre, their job was to struggle with their own studying while calming and supporting their friends –the latter managed to help sixth year Eponine with her work as well, and they had started spending suspiciously much time together-, and for Courfeyrac to cheer them all up and try to concentrate on his work without Combeferre actually having to tie him on his chair with an _Incarcerous_ spell. The members of the A.B.Ai.S.S.E.s inevitably stopped meeting until the end of the year, but it seemed to be quietly agreed between them that they would take this out of school and continue into making it something bigger. However no change in the Wizarding World –or overthrowing the Ministry- could be achieved without all of them managing to finish their studies. 

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras so vulnerable and anxious. He was already incredibly smart, but he still spent hours both during the day and the night, slumped over tons of books in the library, and when it shut in the evening –Enjolras had managed to be the only student, alongside Combeferre that old Madame Pince actually liked, Grantaire even thought that she had a crush on him- he took his work to the common room and remained awake all night, nursing a cup of his favorite mercoffee. He had crossed all house boundaries and given Grantaire the password of the Gryffindor common room portrait, so that his boyfriend could join him most of the nights and they would study together. Grantaire was determined to study potions after school and Enjolras really did believe in his talent, as for Enjolras, he needed to study Magical History and Philosophy before majoring in Wizards’ rights. 

Most of the time Grantaire would get distracted and fail to focus on his textbooks because Enjolras, even tired and irritated, was so beautiful to be true and to be _his._ He spent hours watching him from his favorite place on a red couch, curled on the floor with his blond hair messy and dozens of books on his crossed legs. He played with his hair and struggled to stop him when the Gryffindor seemed absolutely exhausted, dark circles creeping underneath his eyes and his skin getting a pale, greyish shade that made Grantaire’s inside clench uncomfortably. He brought him more coffee and food from the house elves, which he forced him to eat with a little help from Combeferre, who stayed with them and studied until the middle of the night, as well as their other Gryffindor friends. There were a few nights when weariness took over Enjolras and he fell asleep on his notes, long after Joly had left and taken his warnings with him. Grantaire then would accio a blanket and tenderly cover him, after raising him in his arms and placing him on the couch –because who needed levitating charms when he could actually _touch_ Enjolras in such a way? Some other nights, Grantaire passed out as well, and they slept till morning on the fluffy, scarlett carpet, arms wrapped around each other with their limbs tangled together, Enjolras’ peaceful breath stroking his cheek. They would wake up to some shrieking or giggling first year old, but they did not care anymore. They would soon leave that castle forever, besides there was nothing bad about being in love. 

That morning, Grantaire had not slept on the carpet of the Gryffindor common room, as the full moon had just been over and he was still at the infirmary. Jehan and Eponine had just left, after being chased away by the nurse with a broomstick, but Enjolras had still managed to sneak his way into the hospital wing. 

He sat at his bedside and held his hand, rubbing it with his thumb in slow, circular motions. Grantaire was smiling bitterly, his tired, blue eyes red-rimmed and his dark hair dishevelled against the white pillow, his skin pale and yellowish, with a fresh scar marking his collarbone. 

“You don’t have to be here,” he mumbled dazedly. “You have studying to do.” 

“I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than here with you,” Enjolras replied sternly. “I know how hard this is for you and I’m not leaving you alone.” 

Grantaire chuckled sarcastically. “Come on now, Apollo. It’s fine, really. You’re exaggerating, you haven’t ever witnessed a transformation.” 

Enjolras felt his heart skipping a beat. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said with a lump on his throat, “I can’t see any reason for hiding this anymore.” 

Grantaire froze underneath the covers, as if he already knew what he was about to hear. He listened patiently as Enjolras shared _parts_ of the story of that night in the Forbidden Forest with him, his expression remaining blank until the end. “I’m sorry,” was all that he could croak when the confession finished. “I’m terribly sorry, for everything.” 

“Don’t you _dare_ feel sorry, or ashamed, or guilty,” Grantaire opened his mouth to speak but Enjolras held his hand up. “No, don’t you even dare! That was the night I realized how brave and important you were, that was the night I saw you exposed and fell in love with you. I’ve never been more honest in my life.” 

Grantaire didn’t make another attempt to speak. “I need to stay alone,” he whispered after a while. It was what Enjolras dreaded and feared, but he obeyed and got up. “I’m in _love_ with you, Grantaire, more now than ever,” he said before walking away. “Nothing will change that.” 

He spent the next few hours in agony, trying to focus on his studying and failing miserably. He knew he had done a massive mistake by telling Grantaire, everything indicated it, his shocked expression, his blank, blue eyes, his cold hands that were pulled unconsciously away from his own… 

Yet Grantaire was released a few hours later, and found Enjolras at the owlery. He student looked worn and tired, as if he’d prematurely grown a few years, but a small, ghostly smile was lighting his face. Enjolras had abandoned the letter he was about to send and walked towards him, taking his hands in his own. “I love you,” he said fiercely, “you are bright and intelligent and kind and beautiful and I love you for who you are. Never forget that.” 

Grantaire couldn't hold back a smile, and they walked to the window, standing hand in hand. Owls were flying and hooting around them but they didn’t seem to notice. They stared outside, watching the whole, massive castle in all its glory, the lake and the mountains behind, hidden in mist. “I’m going to miss this so much,” whispered Grantaire. “This castle has been home to me the past seven years.” 

Enjolras nodded. “I know. I’ll miss everything. Our meetings every Friday with you mocking our cause, the essays and teachers, the infirmary after every full moon, the forest, the lake, the giant squid and the drunken armor suits, I’ll miss the ghosts, even Peeves and the Bloody Baron, even Professor Javert…” He turned to face Grantaire who was staring out of the window absent-mindedly. “Hey,” he nudged him gently on the ribs, “are you alright?” 

Grantaire turned to face him with a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m great.” 

“You’re not alright,” frowned Enjolras, wrapping an arm protectively around his shoulders. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m alright, really,” his gaze traveled faraway again. “It’s just…” he turned to face Enjolras again, looking pale and miserable. “You didn’t mention me. I’d thought… I’d thought you’d miss me too when we leave.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Really, R? _Honestly_?” 

Grantaire looked positively offended at his tone. “Well _yeah,_ absurd as it may sound, I _was_ hoping that I meant something for you after all those pompous love confessions…” 

Enjolras shut him up with a passionate kiss. “The reason I didn’t say I’ll miss you,” he said seriously, wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s arms tightly, “is because I won’t. I won’t need to miss you, because I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’re okay with that.” 

Grantaire was speechless, his mouth was gaping and his blue eyes were widely open. “You…” he breathed, “really?” 

Enjolras didn’t need to reply, another kiss was pressed against Grantaire’s lips, and that time he felt the dark-haired man smile and tremble in his arms. “With you I feel like I can fly,” he whispered when the kiss broke. 

They looked outside the window again, at the flying owls in the blue sky, and reserved enthusiasm flashed in Grantaire's darkened blue eyes. “Do you have some time to give from your studying?” he asked. 

Enjolras bit his lip, considering the possibilities. “I guess…” 

“Good. Because there is something I want to do before we leave Hogwarts.”

_____________________________________________________________________ 

There were eleven Hippogriffs in the Hogwarts Hippogriff herd. The weather was good that day as sun was shyly peeking between the clouds. Enjolras was looking uncertain, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to another. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this… It’s just… do you feel well enough, right after the full moon?” 

Grantaire smiled disbelievingly, widening his step and making Enjolras walk quickly behind him in order to reach him. “Don’t worry, Apollo. They won’t eat you!” 

It was easy for the Slytherin student to unlock the door of the fence and walk inside carefully. The animals were proudly gorgeous, their front legs, wings and head were that of an enormous eagle, as for the body, hind legs and tail, they belonged to a horse. Their steel-coloured beaks rattled quickly with their croaks, and their orange eyes were gleaming brightly in the sun. Enjolras’ heart was pounding violently as he watched Grantaire make his way between the animals, they weren’t tied and they were already looking horribly hostile. He was terribly afraid that something terrible would happen to his poor boyfriend, who dared to disturb them like that, but Grantaire knew very well what he was doing. His steps were impeccably careful and he did his best to not blink his eyes. 

Surprisingly enough, the Hippogriffs did not approach him, seeming to keep a respectable distance in the way he did. He steadily walked to a brilliant, proud creature with a rich maroon shade on its feathers, and slowly bent his body in front of him, taking a bow. They waited for the most agonizing minutes that felt like ages, before the Hippogriff bent its legs and lowered its big head, finally allowing Enjolras to exhale in relief. They maintained the eye contact and finally, the proud creature made a step closer to Grantaire, who stepped back and out of the fence, looking the door with his wand. 

“How…” breathed Enjolras, “how did you do that?” 

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, tenderly stroking the creature’s beak with his fingers. “Dear old Thunderwine and I are old acquaintances!” he replied simply, stepping aside. “Gryffindors first,” he grinned mischievously. 

It was true, Enjolras was a Gryffindor and he was particularly popular for his bravery. He couldn’t step back to an animal they were taught how to communicate with in their third year. 

He nobly took a bow and it didn’t take long for Thunderwine to bow back, and offer its beak for Enjolras to touch. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered in a steady voice. 

“Of you go, now,” cried Grantaire, pushing Enjolras so that he could climb the Hippogriff. Enjolras let a startled scream, but Grantaire was quick enough to climb behind him and wrap his arms around his waist, and before the scream was ended, the Hippogriff took off with a neigh and their stomachs emptied as they accelerated. 

They were flying, hundreds of meters above the ground. It was a completely different sensation from flying on a broomstick. It was not something they could control, Enjolras just continued screaming, in pulsating excitement this time, as he tugged on the animal’s feathers. They could between the white, puffy clouds, their hair damp and swishing in the wind that throbbed in their heads, their cheeks stroked by the cold air. They could feel the gracious creature against their bodies, they could see Hogwarts in all its glory, the green mountains and the dark lake spreading underneath the huge, maroon wings and they could feel each other’s warmth pressed against their bodies. 

Grantaire was laughing in sheer, almost hysterical excitement, and he did not remind anything of the gloomy, dark, sarcastic and cynical Slytherin that Enjolras had learnt to despise. “I love you!” he cried and his voice meddled with the wind as Enjolras tilted his head around and their lips met, forming a united smile as they spread their arms and the Hippogriff dived lower, his claws licking the water of the lake. 

Enjolras knew that this moment would end soon and he’d have to return to his studies and to the reality of defending the abased and saving the oppressed. But for now, Grantaire was warm, Grantaire was laughing, Grantaire was _his_ and they were free.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this was ridiculous crack... I'd love to hear your opinion on my writing and characterizations:) Constructive criticism is awesome! Thank you for reading!


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